The Original Deeper Than Blood
by Shadow Dragon
Summary: They've no control over their destiny, and when vampires, evil fathers, and the most evil Dark Lord of all time join the fray, nothing seems real and everything's a mess. Join Hogwarts' finest on their hunt for equilibrium. Written before OoTP. Still good
1. Anger In Blood

Disclaimer: Not mine, JK Rowling's. Really. Do you honestly think I could create such magnificent characters? Who are you kidding? 

A/N: Hey, everybody! I posted this on Fanfiction.net (My account name there is "Shadow Dragon" how boring) as the same title. "Deeper Than Blood" It's currently a lot longer than this, so don't worry about cliffhangers—they will all be solved, really.

****

Anger In Blood

Chapter One

__

Blinded

Hope that you can see

All the things that I can be

I'm blinded

Do you hear my call?

Tell me, will you catch my fall?

- Blinded, Bandits Soundtrack 

Jameson Flint was like almost every other member of his team—big, hulking, and very nearly stupid. He was the younger brother to Marcus Flint, who had won every game as captain until the irritable Harry Potter came to Hogwarts. Jameson had never been particularly interested in Quidditch, but that had changed after Marcus had held him against the wall with the threat of dire consequences unless he played as a Beater. Needless to say, Jameson had been at the try-outs the very next year. Now he was standing in the entrance to the Quidditch field, waiting for them to raise the tarp so that the team could enter the field. Milicent Bulstrode, Tiger Jawkins, and Renton Marx, the Chasers, were at the back of the line, chatting in dark tones. Jameson's fellow Beater, Vincent Crabbe, was standing silently beside him. The Keeper, Malcolm Baddock, was muttering to the captain, Draco Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy had been made captain that year because he had been on the team the longest. Most of the team hadn't been looking forward to this, as Malfoy was hated with a passion throughout the Slytherin house and Hogwarts. But Malfoy had changed over the summer in some strange way; the Slytherin team was put through a rigorous practice schedule but it was a fair one. Malfoy was a strict coach, but he was incredibly fair and he knew what he was doing. He had earned the grudging respect of most of the other team captains, with the exception of Harry Potter. Even though Malfoy had given up his age-old habit of insulting Potter and Company, the relations between them stayed frosty.

Jameson now moved closer to Baddock and Malfoy to hear their conversation. "Gryffindor has won the cup five times when you were Seeker," Baddock was accusing Malfoy.

"Three," Malfoy corrected through gritted teeth.

"All right, three then. That's four too many," Baddock snapped, once again proving his inability to count. "You don't deserve to be captain. You're a weasel, Malfoy—"

"Ferret," Malfoy corrected, looking as though he was about to throw a punch at Baddock. Jameson edged closer, eager for a fight. "I'm a _ferret_, get me? I'm not a weasel. Professor Snape thought I deserved to become captain, and I agree with him. Notice that we've nearly had a shutout? Nobody has even scored against us yet. Without my captaining, you would still be on the reserve bench."

Baddock snorted with contempt and turned away.

Jameson watched Malfoy for a long moment afterward until Malfoy swung his head and snapped, "What are you looking at, Flint?" With a sigh, Jameson turned away. And to think he'd almost thought of Malfoy as nice.

*

__

Draco,

I am very displeased at your lack of writing skills. Can you not write something more than "Father, we lost. Draco?" You were trained to be a Malfoy. Include some respect—I am your father.

Your loss to Gryffindor shames me, boy. I did not raise a child to lose at Quidditch! I was fairly pleased that you were made captain before your seventh year. If you do not beat Gryffindor next year, I shall have to cancel your scholarship to the Chudley Cannons. Quidditch can not mean that much to you if you lose constantly.

"No, we've just had a shut-out season, except for the fact that Gryffindor beat us by ten points," Draco snarled inside his head. "Gryffindor was the only one that managed to score—one goal." He had trained up a top-notch Quidditch team; it was his own inability to catch the snitch before Potter that had lost the game. And he would have caught it, too, if Potter hadn't sent both Beaters in on him like vultures. Draco had come out of that particular mess with a broken arm and a wounded pride. He had caught every Snitch before with spectacular skill; one could see he was made for Quidditch. So why did Potter beat him to it every time? Draco scowled as he continued reading.

__

If circumstances continue on like this, I may be forced to request that you resign from the Slytherin Quidditch team completely. 

Your mother looks forward to your return. Your test scores had better be higher than those of last year.

Cordially, 

Lucius

"It really must hurt to have a failure of a son," Draco said aloud to the empty Common Room. He stood up and stretched out his arms as his legs cracked suspiciously from a long period of disuse. There was blood on his palms where his fingernails had dug rivets of anger into them. His face was flushed from the heat because he was still wearing the thick Quidditch jersey and light corduroys. His arm and leg guards lay next to him on the long couch, glistening in the firelight. Draco had waited up, expecting the letter to come, so all of the other students were already to their beds. A glance at his fancy watch told him that it was nearing one o'clock in the morning and that he should retire to bed. Shrugging off his Quidditch cape, Draco bundled it about the guards and trudged up to his room.

"Get another letter?" Goyle asked as Draco entered the room, not bothering to be quiet. Goyle, Crabbe, Zabini, and a couple of his dorm-mates were all playing poker on the card table Goyle had lugged from home. Draco could see a heaping pile of coins in the center and turned away. Up until last year, gambling had been a horrible addiction. Gambling was something that Lucius did. Draco had fought his whole life to become the spitting image of his father; now he wanted nothing more than to disclaim the name Malfoy and take his place in the world as a normal John Doe. He didn't need to join this game.

"Yes," he said shortly, and climbed into his four poster, depositing the bundle at the foot of the bed. He jerked the hangings shut and clenched his eyes shut against the addictive clinking of the Galleons and Sickles. For a long time he sat there, wrapped in the horrible stench of his own feverish sweat. His father would like it this way—Draco would drown himself in misery given from his own body. With the horrible smell in his nostrils and the tempting sound of money in his ears, Draco tumbled into an unhealthy and fitful sleep.

*

__

It was cold, and damp, and dark, and every other thing that should not be accustomed with summer. Draco stood on feet that wept from being stood on for too long and stared at the wall dully. He did not know how he got to the dungeon and neither did he care. The house elves had probably done that, most likely on his father's bidding. Somehow, he had lost his shirt and was dressed in a pair of ordinary muggle jeans that were now more red than blue. His feet had socks on them—plain, ordinary socks that he supposed had once been white. Now they were grimy with slime, blood, and dirt. His pale hair clung to his forehead with what he hoped was sweat, but could not be sure. Dark lashes of pain ripped into his back. Somebody had whipped him.

But he couldn't remember any of it.

All he felt was pain, pain that was more complete than anything the Crucatius Curse could throw at him. And he knew who was behind all of this—Lucius had done it time and again for punishment. His head throbbed with a dull ache that would drive him mad, his legs shook with another ache, his back screamed for mercy. There was maybe one place just behind his right ear that didn't hurt. Draco's chest jerked as he tried to breathe deeply. His breath gave up in a gurgled choke because even that simple motion made his back burn more fiercely than before. 

"Don't you remember anything, fool?" A voice, Lucius's, snapped out of the darkness about him. It echoed about him, trying to confuse Draco. As a child, Lucius had told him several times that the dungeons of Malfoy Manor did not exist. Now he wished with every pore of his body that the dungeons were still the fabled nightmares that Lucius talked about when he thought Narcissa wasn't listening.

"More than you think, Father_," Draco sneered, moving his shoulders ever so slightly so that his wrists wouldn't have to take so much strain from the manacles. This shot spears of pain through his back, nearly blinding him with red, but Draco's voice did not waver. "How much did you beat me this time? Four lashes? Five? Or did you just use your wand—like the coward you are?"_

He knew it was foolish to contest his father like this, but a rage so deep as Draco had never known was growing in his chest. To his surprise and outrage, his father only laughed at his valiant statements, a deep laugh that made Draco strain against his bonds in anger and draw more blood. He hurt so badly, but he wanted so terribly to punch back. Nobody moved until Draco's fit was gone and he hung by his chains, spent. Even in the darkness, his gray eyes burned with rage.

"Men, let the boy down. Narcissa will expect him in time for dinner."

Draco could do nothing as slimy hands reached out and touched him, throwing the pain away. A feeling of intense numbness swept him in and he saw black for a moment. When the world cleared, there were slimy hands on his bare shoulders, and his back was whole. Whoever it was that had healed him brushed a hand over his chest, washing him with cold, and reached for his neck…

Draco woke up gasping, clutching at his neck. Somebody was still trying to choke him—he could feel the phantom hands on his neck, strangling the life from him.

"Malfoy?" Zabini asked sleepily from his own bed as Draco struggled with the imaginary foe.

Zabini's voice was a beacon of light to Draco, a beacon of sanity. Immediately, the cold feeling was washed away and he discovered that he was sitting in his own bed at Hogwarts, surrounded in sheets that were damp with cold sweat. The phantom that was trying to choke him was gone, lost to his dreams. Somehow, he had torn his jersey off in his sleep—it was crumpled at the foot of his bed in what looked like several pieces. Draco stared at it, aghast, as he managed to croak out, "Go back to sleep, Zabini." 

Zabini had already complied.

Blood—dirt—slimy—cold hands—blood—slimy—slimy, cold hands…

A shudder that left Draco gasping tore through him and rendered him weakened in its wake. He stared at his hands, his wrists, down to his socks, all of which gleamed whitely back at him. "Get a hold of yourself," he told himself aloud as his shoulders shook with fear. But he knew he wouldn't.

None of the Slytherin sixth-years saw Draco Malfoy stumble out of his dormitory with a dazed look on his face and a hobble in his step.

*

An early swim was what it took to start the day off on a good note, Ginny had decided early on in her fifth year at Hogwarts. One of the benefits of being a prefect was getting to use the prefect's bathroom and swimming pool. Every morning before the sun rose, she slipped from her dormitory and paced through the cold corridors of Hogwarts stealthily, never caught. Her movements were exactly like a cat's.

Or a snake's…

On the Sunday morning after the big Quidditch match, Ginny arrived earlier than most days because she wanted to scrub off the memories from the celebration in the Common Room. Harry's hands had touched her in a way she didn't want to be touched, making her feel repulsive and disgusting all over. The stupid prat had neither noticed, nor cared. He was Harry Bloody Potter, she thought, and it didn't matter what little Ginny Weasley—Ron's little sister, on top of that—thought about him. Ron Weasley was too busy gloating with a group of girls surrounding him to notice that his best friend was feeling his little sister up. Hermione had seen and had jerked Harry off of her and snapped, "Cut it out, Harry!" The only relief to Ginny now was Hermione's whispered apology after Harry had wandered off, confused.

"Ginny, he doesn't mean anything bad. He's drunk," she had whispered, gripping her hands fretfully.

"On what? We're not house elves. Butterbeer's not that toxic," Ginny had snapped, trying to shrug off the nauseous feeling his hands had left behind.

"Seamus was having his little joke. The butterbeer's got brandy in it," Hermione had said, and left.

Now Ginny slipped into the prefect's bathroom, having murmured the password ("Minty-Clean"). The prefects actually had separate bathing chambers through a door in the back, so the oversized bathtub was now used as a pool since the bathroom was coed. Ginny set one of the taps to thick bubbles that smelled faintly of flowers and another of the taps to gush out cool water that flowed dark purple. After a moment, she slipped her oversized robe off and climbed in, wearing a black shirt that clung to her form and a pair of black shorts that she had stolen from Percy. 

Swimming laps had always soothed her in the past. When she was troubled, she either swam in the lake if she was at school or in the pond at home. During the winter, she had usually ran about the school to cool her nerves, but that held no candle to swimming them off. With a lot more to think about than most sixteen-year-old girls, Ginny treasured the simple things to relieve stress more than anything.

Now she kicked to her swimming with extra vigor, not even stopping when her muscles strained and she had difficulty breathing. Only when her vision turned red and threatened to drown her did she stop—and only then for a few moments to catch her breath. The day was Sunday; nobody would be looking for her for quite some time and everybody woke late on Sundays. In fact, the only one looking would be Colin Creevey—and he wasn't a prefect, so she wasn't worried. 

__

Why can I never get the guys I like to notice me? Why do I always have to attract the ones I don't like? Ginny demanded furiously to nobody in the corner of her mind. First, it had been Neville that had harbored her in her third year. Last year, it had been a mixture of Ernie Macmillan and a boy named Justin Pratt. To add to the confusion, Harry was only a friend now—she'd gotten over that childish crush in her third year on Boxing Day. 

"Three years, that's an awful long time to have a crush," Jamie Marks, a friend of Ginny's from her own year, had remarked. In the corners of her mind, Ginny saw the truth in this and realized that she probably would have been over the crush long before had it not been for her mother's influence. Molly Weasley had raised her children to believe that Harry was the light and salt of the earth. 

And so, for her entire first year at Hogwarts, Ginny had hero-worshipped Harry the way Ron hero-worshipped Samson Parsnippy, the Chudley Cannons Keeper. In her second year, the affection towards Harry had been more of the sort of affliction one felt for somebody who has just rescued them. In her third year, as she watched Harry battle all sorts of dangers from dragons to Lord Voldemort (having met his former self, Ginny blatantly refused to call him "You-Know-Who") she had realized what the feelings were: she was not in love with Harry the person, but the concept of Harry. _That_ had ended really quick. 

__

Men are alike, Ginny decided while she turned around to start a new lap. _None of them care about other people. In fact, all men are evil._

So wrapped in her thoughts was Ginny that she did not notice the creak of the door from the bathing cubicles opening.

"Well, well, well," somebody drawled to the far right of the pool. Ginny, caught off guard, gasped in a lungful of water. As humans cannot breathe water, this became increasingly difficult on Ginny's oxygen-starved lungs. Black crowded around the edges of her vision, threatening to send her into a great sense of nothingness. She did not feel the strong hands that grabbed her shoulders and hauled her out of the pool, scraping her across the side and onto flat, dry tiles. She was only barely aware of being rolled onto her side. Only when she coughed, gushing water onto the tiles, did the black start to recede. After a long moment while her body heaved the offending soapy water out of her system, she was able to think again. Then she got her first look at her savior.

Talk about evil men.

Draco Malfoy was crouched in front of her, clad only in blue silk boxers and looking neither self-conscious nor condescending. His face appeared almost naked without its sneer. Ginny even thought that he looked pale, although he allowed no more than a look of neutrality to pass across his finely chiseled features.

"Whatever were you doing, Weasley?" he asked, removing his hand from her shoulder. He did not stand up, however, so that left him in an awkward half-kneel, half-crouch that looked painful. He didn't seem to notice.

"Swimming," Ginny coughed weakly. She continued coughing until Draco pounded her back twice to help her let the water out. For a long moment, she just sat there, too weak to move.

"You are aware, however, that Gryffindors aren't perfect and therefore cannot breathe underwater?" Draco, despite his cruel words, did not look at her with a sneer—his eyes clearly held worry and shame that his thoughtless actions had brought her to this.

"As I'm sure you're aware that Slytherins don't always have to be mean and cruel," Ginny countered, exasperated at being shoved off as a Gryffindor. Her voice creaked like a teenage boy's as she talked. Draco Malfoy was high on her list of people to dislike, but she was willing to be civil on account of the fact that he had just saved her life.

"Touché," Draco said with an uncharacteristic smirk. Ginny smiled hesitantly. In the tense moment of silence that followed, Ginny noticed some spare clothing lying on the ground a few feet away. Draco had apparently taken off extremely expensive clothing to rescue her—all of that clothing was toppled about and half-drenched now. Somehow, Ginny was touched, but she said nothing. 

Draco finally broke the silence by clearing his throat, finally seeming to notice that he was only in boxers. "I was, er, thinking of swimming, if you don't mind sharing the pool for awhile."

"No—go ahead."

Draco Malfoy, most evil of all men, was being nice to _her_, a Weasley. Wasn't there some sort of law against that? Their fathers hated each other with a passion, the children naturally followed in their parents' footsteps. Until he had startled her into nearly killing herself, Draco Malfoy had barely said a word to her—and certainly, he had never said a _nice_ word to her at all. She had begun to believe that he, like his father, was just purely evil and therefore not to be messed with now. People around school had claimed that he had changed this last summer—were they right?

She watched numbly as he paced to the edge of the pool, testing the warmth with one foot before arching his back and diving in like a professional swimmer. He was only inches taller than she was, but he had a creepy thinness that gave him a skeletal look in the low light of the poolroom. When he had raised his arms for balance, she saw well defined muscles bunching around his shoulders and upper arms. Draco Malfoy definitely had the body form and the strength of a Seeker. She waited until his head and shoulders appeared above the surface of the water before she moved at all. Hesitantly, she clambered back into the pool, ignoring the fact that he was watching her.

"Why do you swim?" Draco asked as Ginny sank into the water and let it wrap her in warmth.

"To stay fit," Ginny lied before she experimented with a simple forward stroke and performed it cleanly. No physical damage from her near-death, apparently. If only her hands would stop shaking…

Draco eyed her with an expression she could not hope to read and ducked under the water. He reappeared and slicked his hair back, smiling maliciously now. "Why would you need to stay fit?" he demanded, eyeing her form. Ginny was about to hold his head under the water and give him a black eye or two when she noticed that he _wasn't _looking at her chest—he was staring at the water next to her. He was just doing this to annoy her, but he was being noble about it. She sighed and turned over to do a side-stroke.

"Why are _you_ up so early?" she asked suddenly, changing her mind.

Draco's smile disappeared so quickly that she wasn't sure he had been smiling at all. "I don't want to talk about it," he said, his aura suddenly turned to one of forced pleasantry. Through the smile-grimace, she could see the pain in his eyes. Something had driven him from his sleep—something horrible.

"We're both mysterious people, aren't we?" Ginny rubbed both hands through her hair to tame it down and smiled hesitantly, trying to break the ice. "You won't tell me why you're down here and I won't tell you why I swim."

"We're mysterious, all right," Draco agreed guardedly. "We would be boring if we were not." He smiled back as hesitantly as she had.

Somehow, Ginny knew, she had made a new friend that day in the most unusual way possible. The funny thing was: Harry Potter, Draco's greatest schoolboy arch-rival, had driven her to it.

* 

Draco Malfoy looked up from his latest History of Magic essay and sighed, rubbing his hand through his straw-thin pale blond hair. Clumps of it were sticking up from repeated motions of this action, and there were blue-black circles under his eyes against pale winter skin. The halting smile he had given Ginny Weasley was completely gone; there was nothing on his face now but a tired look. Even his eyes were blank of their usual hardness. People passing by could gauge one thing about him immediately: Draco Malfoy hadn't slept comfortably in a long time.

"Doing homework, Malfoy? That's not like you." Draco looked up to see exactly who he didn't want to talk to: the exasperating third year, Malcolm Baddock.

"Yeah, I got to be the leading contender for Head Boy by sleeping in class and spending all of my afternoons gambling away my father's money," Draco snapped, not in the mood to deal with Baddock at the present moment. In truth, yes, he had fallen asleep in a couple of classes in his second year and he had spent quite a few afternoons gambling. Baddock didn't need to know that about him, though.

To Draco's complete annoyance, Baddock sat down opposite him and opened a Potions textbook. "I wanted to talk about who's going to be captain next year."

"We are not giving the position of captain to you, so do not even try," Draco told him shortly and turned back to his essay, trying to signal that conversation was officially over.

Baddock either didn't get much human interaction or he was just stupid. "My father says your father won't let you play again since you lost to Gryffindor," he said very quietly.

"_I_ lost to Gryffindor?" Draco could not believe this kid—he was bigger and taller than Baddock, but Baddock was still pursuing this subject. He longed to beat this—this_ child's_ head in and reduce the size a bit. "If you had blocked that shot by bloody Seamus Finnegan, we wouldn't have lost. We would have at least tied, so the fault is not entirely mine," Draco said, his blood boiling now. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of red hair and groaned. Great, now Harry Potter's sidekick was here to make his break worse.

"If you had caught the snitch, we would have beaten the crap out of Gryffindor for the first time in six years!" Baddock snapped back, his voice rising.

"Five."

"Whatever, five years! My father says you're not worthy of being—" Draco, tired of this conversation, used the quick reflexes he was born with and lunged across the table. His hands secured Baddock by the collar of his robes. Baddock paled as Draco jerked him to his feet and frog-marched him out of the library. Once they had passed an unsuspecting Madam Pince and had gone out into the corridor, Draco slammed Baddock none too gently against the wall, still holding him by his fancy robes.

"Listen to me, little boy. I've got three years and about ten pounds on you, not to mention at least a foot and a half of height," Draco hissed, murder in his eyes as he jerked Baddock's collar a couple of the times. "I am the Quidditch captain, whether you like it or not, and I will be captain next year. Furthermore, you will follow my leadership until a new captain is appointed. With all of the trouble you've been giving me, I will personally talk to Snape and be sure that you never get the position. Ever. You may think that Dumbledore doesn't have any power in this school, but he does and quite a bit of it. What your father demands will not matter. And if I go to Dumbledore with this, trust me, he will be on my side."

He didn't plan to go to Dumbledore—his father would never permit it—but the threat was enough to shut Baddock up for at least a month. Draco shoved the shorter boy against the wall again and stalked off, face flushed from anger. Baddock rubbed his neck apprehensively and tried to slink back into the library. He was knocked out of the way by somebody in a hurry and had to pick his pride from the ground once again, much to pleasure of any and every watching Gryffindor.

"Mal—Draco!"

Draco, halfway down the staircase, did not turn as somebody shouted his name. _Please don't be Pansy,_ he complained in his head. _I have had about enough of her as I can take for a century. Please, don't be—_

"Draco, wait up, will you! Your legs are longer than mine."

No, the voice definitely wasn't Pansy's. It was not anybody from Quidditch, and it didn't sound like anybody's voice that Draco knew of. The voice was too light and melodious, a rather pretty voice. After years of dealing with other Slytherins, the girls' voices would grow to become deep and seductive, or high and annoying. The Slytherin Accent, as Draco tended to refer to it. He wagered that the person calling him was either a Ravenclaw who was curious about something or a Hufflepuff who was just stupid. When he turned, he saw neither of these possibilities.

Ginny Weasley was hurrying towards him.

"I just saw you hold that kid against the wall," she gasped. "What happened? Are you okay?" 

Draco was caught off guard—Ginny was worried about _him_ and not Baddock. He heard himself ask, "Baddock? I wish I'd done more than hold him against the wall." At Ginny's questioning look, he explained, "He's on the Quidditch team, and he wants to become captain, despite the fact that he's a third-year who has something up his—" He stopped, not wanting to curse in front of Ginny. "He was threatening to write to—write to my father and get me kicked off the Quidditch team."

"But you're the best captain Slytherin has ever seen!" Ginny burst out. Seeming to realize what she said, she clapped both hands over her mouth and stared at him, wide-eyed.

Draco paused and turned to her, a puzzled look on his face. "Weasley—"

"_Ginny_. There are so many Weasleys that if you called me that, you might get an answer from any number of my brothers." Ginny uncovered her mouth so she could talk.

"Okay, then, _Ginny_—you realize that you're a Gyffindor, don't you?" Ginny gave him an annoyed look, but he didn't back down from his point. "Isn't there some sort of Code of Ethics in the Gryffindor Common Room that says 'Don't praise the Slytherin Quidditch Captain' or something?"

"Yeah, it's right next to 'Thou shalt worship Harry Potter.' You can see I don't do _that_ either. I'm not the typical Gryffindor."

"Really? Then why do I seem to recall…" Draco trailed off with a mischievous grin on his face, the first happy look in two days. Grinning even wider, he flung out both arms and sang to the world, "His eyes are as green as a fresh-pickled toad—oomph!" He held his stomach where Ginny socked him and laughed in great wheezing gasps.

But Ginny didn't find this funny at all; her eyes spoke murder as she glared at Draco Malfoy with a hatred he had not seen except in the deepest remnants of his father's eyes. He only watched in shock as she stormed off, ears as red as her hair. "Okay, I just screwed _something_ up," he muttered to nobody in particular and shook his head. Nobody could understand girls, he was sure, not even themselves.

Or Gryffindors, for that matter.

*

Draco had once again returned to his essay when he felt another shadow above him. "Bug off, Baddock, I'm tired of listening to your whining," he grumbled, thinking that maybe Baddock would go away if he didn't look up.

"Malfoy," a voice much deeper than Baddock's snapped. "I want a word." 

To his everlasting disgust, Draco looked up to see the insufferable Ron Weasley standing there, backed by brain-whiz Hermione Granger. There was no love lost between Weasley and Draco—as a matter of fact, the two hated each other with a schoolboy grudge gone too far. Granger was glaring daggers at him as well, as if that should do anything to wear down his resolve. "If this is about Ginny, then I really don't want to talk to either of you about it," he snapped, growing irritated. "I just want to finish my essay."

"I don't know why you even talked to Ginny in the first place," Granger commented, eyes narrowing into slits. Draco considered giving the two of them a rude signal for a long moment, but decided against it and started to return to his essay.

There was maybe one thing that Draco would give Weasley—he was strong. Much as Draco had grabbed Baddock's collar earlier, Weasley hauled Draco his feet and pulled him from the library. Draco had enough dignity to throw him off and stand there, poised angrily like a dangerous snake. Weasley looked equally angry, his face red as he faced his 'greatest enemy.' "What did you say to her that upset her so much?" he demanded of Draco.

"I told you that I'm not going to talk to you about it. If Ginny has a problem with me, then let _her_ talk to me about it." Draco turned on his heel and started to go back into the library, but Weasley's next words stopped him.

"You're just like your father, Malfoy. Just like him, you know that?" Weasley bounced on his toes, really warming up for his next insult and not realizing that he had hit a nerve. "You're both insufferable, ugly, stupid, sadistic pigs. You're destined to turn out no good, like your good-for-nothing father."

"Don't," and Draco spun around with a wild look on his flushed face, "ever compare me to my father again, Weasley." His voice was full of quiet venom and his face held nothing but barely-contained anger. "I am twice the man he will ever be."

And he spun around and walked off, his shoulders drawn up close to his ears. 

Ron watched him go like a predator who only watches as the prey merely walks off. "Stupid git," he snapped at Draco's retreating back. Draco gave no response.

*

Ginny was tired of it all, tired of being interrogated by Ron and Harry and Hermione, tired of playing the good child, and tired of keeping her feelings locked up. The three sixth years could be quite bothersome if they put their minds to accomplishing something. Right now, they had one goal: draw all of the information out of Ginny and make her break.

Just her luck that she had followed Draco in broad daylight, especially from the library. Hermione, always the diligent studious one, had seen and had been nosy enough to follow. She'd seen Ginny blow up at Draco and she was convinced it was entirely Draco's fault. Never mind that Ginny had insisted that she could take care of herself, Hermione had gone to Ron and Harry. Now all three were giving her looks that varied between fathering anxiety to pity to fury.

"What exactly did he say to you?" Harry asked concernedly, patting her hand. Ginny recoiled from him and covered this by rolling her eyes at all of them. "You can tell us—we're doing this for your own sake."

__

You wouldn't be so concerned if Draco were somebody else. You'd let me handle this by myself if I chose to befriend somebody else. But, nooo. You think that Draco's the ringleader here. If Draco weren't a supposed follower of Lord Voldemort, you wouldn't be doing this to me. Deep in her mind, Ginny had suspicions of this, but now was not the time to voice them.

Ron leaned over her, always the overprotective brother. "Why won't you tell us? This is _Malfoy_. Draco Malfoy, creep of all evilness. You're allowed to make mistakes, we can forgive you for that. Just 'fess up."

"I'm proud to say I've slapped him," Hermione commented from where she was perched over yet another book. Ginny had tried sending her thoughts via the female link for the past twenty minutes. Now she had given and figured that Hermione must be some sort of paranormal female, above reading the thoughts of her fellow peers.

__

No wonder you people are all single. You're bothersome, annoying gits! Stop prying into my life and get your own, the rebellious side of Ginny snapped at them. The placid side leaned back and rolled her eyes, tired of the whole affair. She was only mutely annoyed at Draco now—he didn't know that discussion of Harry Potter was a particularly tender spot. She wanted to go find him and apologize, hoping he was once again in the library. For some reason, friendship with the blond Slytherin appealed to her more than she could hope to think.

Colin Creevey entered the Common Room just then and stared to head up to his room with a fistful of freshly developed prints. Noticing the pleading look on Ginny's face, however, he strode over immediately and grabbed her hand. "Ginny! Just the person I was looking for! I need your help with something." Ron tossed his hands up in disgust as Ginny practically leapt from her chair and danced off with Colin. 

Ginny thought she heard him mutter, "Well, at least he's better than Malfoy."

Colin hauled her out of the Common Room and stopped just in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady. "Evening," he murmured to the back of the portrait, always polite, before rounding on Ginny. "What was going on in there? You looked like you were going to kill something!" 

"Ron's being the overprotective pig-brother we all know him to be," Ginny sighed, leaning weakly against the passage wall. "They're worried about me because I talked to Malfoy today. I saw him holding some kid against the wall and asked what the problem was. Nothing serious." Colin nodded—he had never had much trouble with Malfoy, so Ginny knew that he wouldn't give the typical Gryffindor reaction to mention of him. "Thank you for rescuing me! I owe you one."

Colin's dark eyes glimmered with silent humor as he nodded. "Well, you can help me right now, then." Over the years, he had morphed from the scrawny, pale boy to a much taller, darker young man with a deep, husky voice that would set any girl on edge. Because he talked so little around people that were not Harry or Ginny, not many girls knew this about him. Ginny at one point might have been interested in dating Colin, but they were too good of friends for that. Besides, she didn't like brown hair that much.

"Sure, what's the problem?" As much as she would have liked to go talk to Draco and maybe explain her actions should that be needed, she decided that could wait if Colin needed help.

"Well, there's this girl I want to ask to come with me to the last Hogsmeade trip…" Colin began nervously.

Ginny smiled. This, she could help with.

*

__

Draco leaned his head forward, trying to ignore the fact that his back was screaming at him in two thousand languages, screaming the same meaning in each. 

Pain. Pain. Pain. Ouch, that hurts. 

Lances of fire mounted his skin, clawing into him and drawing thick rivers of red blood tainted with poison. He was a Malfoy; the poison came with the pain that was already there. Being poisonous was part of the heritage.

"Feeling better now, son? Perhaps I should let you have another lash. You do not seem to be sobbing like the baby you are." Lucius stood in front of him, a pale head that rose from a black-eschewed form. He walked across the packed dirt and stood a foot away from his son so that it appeared like Draco was looking into an extremely evil mirror. Draco screwed his eyes shut and turned his head away so that he would not have to look at his filth of a father. "My own son, a Malfoy, cowering! Men, is this not amusing to you?" He turned around with his hands up in the air like some sadistic game-show host. Laughter ensued.. As soon as the laughter stopped, Lucius whirled on his son once again. "You're a coward, unfit to be my son."

"I'd rather die than be your son!" Draco howled, rage exploding from him in the form of a beast. He strained against the chains at his wrists and ankles, but he must have been wounded deeper than he thought. All that his efforts did was knock him forward clumsily. All around him, laughter, cruel and insidious, echoed. Even Lucius, who normally kept an ice-chilled cover, laughed coldly, spitting at Draco's upturned and raw back.

"We can arrange that," he whispered softly to Draco, pulling out his wand and pointing it between the boy's eyes. "Say the words and I'll do it."

Kneeling on the dirt, wet with his own blood and sweat, Draco looked up defiantly. "One day, I'll fight you, Father," he promised quietly as the laughter stopped. "I'll fight you and I'll kill _you!" He leaped forward again, but again, he fell. "I'll bring _real_ honor to the Malfoy name. I'll wash out memories of the cowards like you and the Malfoy line will have something to be _proud_ of again."_

Lucius sneered openly into his face. "Whip him again."

Another streak of pain into the fiery mass, another scar to his growing collection. Draco only twitched as the blow was delivered, his eyes never leaving Lucius's face. "You can beat me all you want, Father. I won't remember when I'm done with it. You'll just perform a spell to make the memories go away and I'll cling to them in dreams. Does it matter?"

"You'll have the scars. You'll always have the scars."

"And you'll_ have the memories," Draco swore._

*

Draco woke up sweating, his head pounding. He had fallen asleep on the couch in the Common Room, where he had been reading a book A glance at his watch (tailored in Switzerland, specially made for him) told him it was too early to be awake, and too late to go back to sleep. A long night's sleep had been achieved, but Draco felt as though he hadn't slept at all. In fact, he was quite sure that the entire Wizard Symphony percussion section was playing the timpani beneath his skull. With a sigh, he trudged up to his dormitory and pulled a fresh change of robes out of his trunk, rubbing at his sore neck. A whispered spell relieved the pain in his head.

He was not surprised to find Ginny swimming when he entered the bathroom. She did not hear him come in and did not even notice him as she did lap after feverish lap. For a long time, he just stood there, staring at her surrounded by a pillow churning water. He wanted to say something to her, but he knew he shouldn't. The last time he had randomly said something while she was swimming, he had ended up stripping to his boxers and jumping in to rescue her. Sighing with resignation, he went back into the bathing cubicles and let the hot water run all over his shoulders and the scars he knew were there.

When he emerged from the bathing cubicles ten minutes later, feeling refreshed, Ginny was sitting at the edge of the pool staring intensely into the depths. "Oh!" she cried, seeing him. "I didn't see you come in."

"You were swimming. I thought it best not to disturb you," Draco said cordially, and made a beeline for the door. The remnants of the pride his father had shattered were telling him to get out of there—she was a Gryffindor and therefore hands-off material. _Don't stop me, don't say anything_, he pleaded in his head.

Ginny either didn't read minds or was just being blatantly defiant, because she stood up and stopped him with one quelling look. "Are you a Death Eater?"

Draco, expecting her to start apologizing for hitting him or something equally strange, was caught off guard. "What?" he asked dumbly.

"You heard me: are you a Death Eater?" He wished she would look away or something, but true to her Gryffindor nature, she stared fixedly at him. "Harry thinks that you're the—"

"Potter thinks. That's funny," Draco said shortly. Ginny had stumbled onto a particularly touchy subject that he didn't feel like discussing with anybody he knew, much less her.

"Are you?" Ginny plowed on. Her fists were closed and shaking at her side. Apparently, this moment wasn't any easier for than it was for him. "Seriously, Draco, are you a Death Eater? I need to know." Draco struggled to look away from her face so he could deliver the horrible news, but he saw the pleading look in her eyes. He opened his mouth to answer.

"Draco the Death Eater. Sounds like a children's book," a new voice told from the darkness of the shadows. Harry Potter, who was not a prefect and had obviously followed Ginny into the bathroom (judging from the murderous expression on her face, she hadn't known that he had), emerged, looking like the child-hero he was praised to be. Draco shut his mouth with a resounding noise. Harry seemed to take this as a drama cue, and glared at him. "A rather grim children's story that will end in lots of pain. Watch it, Malfoy, I'm on to you."

"On to me, are you?" Draco forced an air of pleasantness, even though Ginny could see his fingernails digging into his palms. The healing scabs were open and blood was starting to trickle into his hands. "Perfect Potter's on to little old Malfoy, is he now?"

Potter glared and Draco found himself suddenly apathetic to the whole mess. He opened his mouth to tell Potter to screw off, but what came out instead was: "Is it bad enough that you have to beat me to the Snitch every time and humiliate me in front of the whole school? Is it bad enough that you're perfect and I'm a horrible foul little monster? Can't you just leave me alone and stick your head in a toilet somewhere?"

"It's my _job_ to seek out the bad guys, Malfoy. That means you." Potter glared at him as he stalked about the pool and planted himself next to Ginny. He wrapped a protective arm around her wet shoulders. She looked away, but Draco could see the furious dislike on her face; whether it was for him or Potter, Draco had no way of telling. Suddenly, it dawned on him.

"Oh, I see," he said quite suddenly. "Potter's still playing his little game of coppers and robbers." Draco was angry now, angrier at Harry Potter than he had ever been, although he could not hope to explain the irrational feelings. "Potter's after Malfoy the Bad Guy. Malfoy, the son of Voldemort's top henchman." Draco was good at containing his anger—numerous trips to the dungeons over the summer had trained him better than any tutor or governess could—but right now he just did not want to contain it. He wanted to beat Potter's face in worse than he ever had before. Instead he danced about in a sinister "bad guy" fashion, holding his hands up like a despicable muggle Frankenstein monster. "Potter the saint is protecting 'his girl' from big bad Malfoy."

Now Ginny was glaring balefully at him.

"Perhaps Potter is blinder than even I thought he was," Draco finished, making eye contact with her. In the brief exchange, Draco said more than he could have ever said aloud. Ginny discreetly twisted out of Potter's grip and sat at the edge of the pool, once again staring into the depths. 

"I've always hated you, Malfoy," Potter swore, now looking Draco in the eye. Neither boy shied away. "People are saying you've changed. They say that you're different, nicer even. I don't believe one word of any of it. To me, you'll always be the…" Potter paused to let his words sink in, but Draco jumped on the opportunity.

"Quick, Potter, don't strain your mind," he drawled, hiding the irritated note in his voice. "Exams are next week. You'll need all of that thick wit you were born with to pass those." Draco felt like he was leading a child around with a bit of candy. He was bored with this game; he just wished that he could go on and ignore Potter and his little friends in peace. They were so intent on fighting the dark forces that they missed what was right in front of their eyes. "Now get out of here before I pull rank and take ten points from Gryffindor. You're not a prefect, after all." From the pocket of his black trousers, he pulled a Prefect's badge out and waved it at Potter.

"Ginny, come on," Potter said disgustedly, still glaring at him while he started to tug her towards the door.

"You go on. I still have to change into my robes and rinse off." Potter still did not notice that Ginny was glaring at him as she wrangled herself from his grasp. He only sighed and let himself out. Draco started to follow, but he was foolish enough to look at Ginny on his way out.

Ginny moved so that she was in front of him, dripping onto the tile and not seeming to care. "Look, I'm sorry I hit you yesterday—"

"Don't apologize. I deserved it. No wonder you hit me, either. If I'd had a crush on that guy, I'd be hanging myself from the Astronomy Tower." Draco walked over to the sink, glared at the mermaid (who only giggled and waved her tail fin back at him), and plucked up a towel, which he tossed to Ginny. Ginny caught it and started to rub her hair dry. "Is it just me or did Potter get an insufferably huge head over the school year? Whoever thought somebody could be so dislikable?"

"I did. At least he didn't try to feel _you_ up." Ginny's voice was dark as she wrapped the towel around her hair and pawed through the pile of clothing she had brought with her.

"He felt you up?"

"Yeah. He was drunk. Seamus Finnegan put brandy in the butterbeer at our celebration party for winning the Quidditch game." Ginny picked up the pleated gray skirt (probably secondhand) and light gray shirt and started to head towards the bathing cubicles. "It's a side-effect of saving the world—he thinks he can have any girl he wants." She twitched her shoulder at Draco and disappeared into the cubicles. Draco, knowing how long his mother took in the shower, resolved not to wait and went to get breakfast before putting in an extra hour of studying for his Transfigurations exam while the rest of the school woke. If he focused on studying, he could almost get the picture of Potter feeling Ginny up out of his head. He went to his first class thoroughly disgusted.

*

Draco saw no more of Ginny for the rest of the week. His nightmarish memories kept him pinned to the sheets until it was time to get up for breakfast. Neither he nor Ginny dared approach each other in the hallways between classes. This didn't bother Draco too much; he had other things on his mind. When he wasn't clamoring through a textbook, he was planning out new routines for the next Quidditch season. On Friday afternoon, he headed down to the dungeons with the rest of his classmates, but broke off from the group and headed to Professor Snape's classroom.

Luckily, the professor was in there, brewing an anti-cheating potion and looked foul-tempered about something. However, Draco Malfoy was one of the people that did not get perpetual glares from Professor Snape, so he was not worried about this as he walked in.

"Afternoon, Professor," Draco said after he had knocked on the door and entered to Snape's annoyed "Come in, come in" call.

"Ah, my Quidditch captain. What brings you here? Shouldn't you be in the library studying?" Snape asked, straightening. He never called Draco by his name when Draco came to see him about something for Quidditch. Draco suspected that it was because his name was Malfoy. Lucius had made it plain that Snapes and Malfoys were never supposed to get along.

" had some business to clear up with you before we left for the summer. Since you've got finals next week, I thought now might be the best time. How well do you know Malcolm Baddock?" Draco praised all of the training he had received as a child that made him sound like an adult right now.

"He's the most exceptional Keeper Slytherin's seen in quite some time," Snape said guardedly.

"And he knows it." Draco paused. "He's been bothering me quite a bit lately about becoming captain and being quite forceful about it. I think he's trying to get me thrown from the team."

Snape started laughing, a cold laugh that chilled Draco. "I figured you would be down to see me about this. Mr. Baddock was just in here yesterday, complaining about your inability to catch the snitch."

"So he's going to the teachers about it, now? He was threatening me with some very indiscreet and pretty hateful topics." Draco paused, unsure of how to word his next question.

"So you want to know if you can scare him a bit, make him loosen a little?" Snape asked, watching his best student's face. "You're coming to me for permission? Something's changed you, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco started and nodded. "In fact," Snape continued, "a year ago, you would have beaten Mr. Baddock into the ground without permission." Draco nodded again. Snape paused for a long moment, searching his pale face and seeming to find what he was looking for. He nodded. "And your seventeenth birthday in a few weeks, you have a very big summer ahead of you, don't you?" _I'm going to stop jumping any moment now_, Draco swore to himself as he jumped. "You're not looking forward to this summer at all, are you?"

"No, sir."

"I shall speak to Professor Dumbledore about this. He knows everything as well as I do. You might want to schedule an appointment with him to discuss this summer's events, yes? The meeting will of course be classified information." Professor Snape lurched forward one step and stared at his top student. "You're going to make a fine Head Boy. It's time Slytherin had one. And—er, yes, you may rough Baddock over a little. Make him suffer the pains of Quidditch."

"Thank you, sir."

Feeling jumpier than he had been when he entered, Draco saw himself to the door and raced away from the dungeon to the library, where solace could be found. He didn't want to talk to Snape about this summer and he certainly didn't want to talk to Dumbledore about it. He was a Slytherin, wasn't he? Didn't he have some sort of pride? 

He sighed as he opened his Potions text book and stared at the page. Strengthening Potion. People needed strengthening potion to help them out with difficult situations. Maybe, just maybe, he might need help about this summer. Unbidden, he thought of telling Ginny about what he was expected to do, but brushed that thought away quickly. Part of his not wanting to tell Ginny was Slytherin pride, the rest was just not wanting to deface something that hadn't been touched by the evil he had been raised into. Ginny Weasley had a good life—she didn't need bumbling Draco Malfoy to ruin it. Perhaps it was best that he give up his pride and go to Dumbledore. As much as he hated to admit it, Draco Malfoy could not do this alone.

He still didn't want to think about this summer.


	2. Fear In Blood

AN: Hey, everybody! The long-awaited second chapter of Deeper Than Blood is finally complete! Now I just have to write the third chapter…don't worry, I've got a good head start. I've got a list of shout-outs here. The first goes to Apocalypse, who stepped up to the plate when I needed help! Thanks! Lots of thanks to Danette, who listened to me whine and go through several STRANGE ideas over IM! Rock on! To all of those who reviewed at the DG site/list, and on ffn! And to my wonderful friends, who still have yet to read this, hint hint.

Disclaimer: Characters that you don't recognize are mine. The rest belong to Warner Brothers Studios and JK Rowling and all of those big names I can't remember.

****

Fear in Blood

Chapter Two

__

And I get so lonely in this crowd

I want to scream but make no sound  
  
And yeah I'm lost but maybe I'll be fine  
  
- I Do, Better Than Ezra

Draco,

His Lordship is expecting your journey home this summer with great anticipation. He is quite eager to have a Hogwarts Head Boy in his service. He hopes that perhaps you will remind him of himself. I told him that you were a despicable weakling, but he wants to get his own opinion of you.

Your mother is also looking forward to your arrival. So are the dungeons.

Do not forget my last words to you when you left from Easter Break. Think long on them, they may be your downfall.

Cordially,

Lucius Malfoy

Draco hauled in a deep breath and slowly let it out, feeling his chest hitch. In the past, his father had always done him a favor by sending the letters at night when Draco had time to sleep on them and mentally prepare himself for a new day. Lucius had never sent a letter at breakfast, but today he seemed to be breaking his pattern. Great. The day Draco had exams, Lucius decided to be spontaneous.

His hardest exam, Transfiguration, would be his first one. Draco had rejoiced at first because he would get the hardest out of the way first, but now all he felt was dread. He would have to take an examination with _this_ hanging over his head. Talk about bad timing. Subconsciously, he nibbled on one of the cookies his mother had sent him as he read over her letter, attached to his father's with the clasp of a very expensive-looking black Muggle pen that flashed "Head Boy" in green and silver. He pocketed the pen as he read.

__

Dearest Draco,

I'm so excited that you're coming home in a week and a half! Of course, I have owled most of your professors and they claim you're doing well. Your father himself tells me that you are the leading contender for Head Boy. If you were to make that, son, I would be so proud of you! Even if you don't, remember that you still are my son and I am still your mother, even if your father disowns you. I hope you enjoy these cookies. I told Snippy to bake them myself, so you can consider them baked with love.

Love,

Narcissa

Draco groaned. His mother meant well, but she just didn't get the whole mothering concept. Instead of trying to make him feel better, she'd done just the opposite. He grumbled to himself and stashed both letters in his pocket, offering the cookies to Millicent Bulstrode. She accepted greedily just a tiny screech-owl dropped a letter on Draco's head. "Hey!" he cried. The letter clunked suspiciously as it bounced off of his head and hit the table. Feeling indignant, he opened the letter and watched a single Knut fall out. Unfortunately, adding to Draco's incredible bad luck, the Knut was charmed to bounce—right into his pumpkin juice. "Ugh," he complained, and picked up the letter.

__

Draco,

Knut for your thoughts. Or your enjoyment, take your pick.

Ginny

PS—This is a good luck charm. You know, for getting Head Boy and all.

Draco rubbed his head where the letter had hit it, smiled in the direction of the Gryffindor table, and pocketed this letter as well. That done, he proceeded to fish the Knut out of his pumpkin juice. It rolled onto the floor and bounced on his foot for a few seconds until he caught it. "_Stillus_," he told it irritably, wondering if he should just stash it in his pocket. One didn't keep good luck charms in one's pocket, did one? After a long moment of indecision, Draco conjured a small silver chain and attached the Knut to it using magic. He then strung that around his neck and let that rest under his uniform.

Ginny caught his eye and turned away, grinning evilly. Draco only smiled back and returned to his breakfast, studiously avoiding his pumpkin juice.

*

"Perform a two-transfiguration equation on the blackboard and then execute it on this potted houseplant."

"Train an entire chorus of Silent Doves to sing Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. Be sure to include all five voice parts, first and second chair of each pitch."

"Use the Dream-Plane to predict what will happen in your life in two weeks. Write a detailed essay on how to use the Dream-Plane."

"Recite to me _Patrick's Rune_, using correct pronunciation and rhythms. When you are finished, recite the spells used to activate these words and use them to create your own four-line rune, based on the methods learned in Chapter Two of _Runic Translations_."

"Write an essay on how to cure _Hemphitis Totalus_ and create the cure using the plants at your Greenhouse table."

"Name the fifteen ingredients in a perfectly good Vindinctus Potion and how they must be prepared." 

"Write an essay explaining the structures of the different words used in the Unforgivable Curses and why these structures make these words so dangerous."

Draco sighed wearily as he finished his last essay—Arithmancy—and stretched. The Bouncing Knut tugged weakly on its chain, as though mirroring Draco's utter exhaustion. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione Granger twiddling her thumbs, waiting until the very end of the class period to hand in her exam. Most of the students were still on the first page, scrawling random nonsense and hoping that Professor Vector wouldn't notice. Draco's looping print, looking oddly formal against the cheap parchment, raced across four pages. The Unforgivable Curses were curses he knew practically everything about; this essay had been excruciatingly easy.

Idly, Draco pulled the Bouncing Knut off of the chain and twirled that around on his finger. He had been the first one done with his Potions exam, so he'd had quite a bit of time on his hands to mess around with the Knut. As a joke, he had charmed half of it silver and the other half crimson. On the crimson side, a Gryffindor lion roared silently, clawing at the air. Opposite of that, the Slytherin snake emblazoned its way around the pendant, hissing quietly. Draco was rather fond of his invention—it took complicated magic to work any sort of spells on a magical coin. The Ministry had made it impossible to change a Knut to a Galleon, but that didn't mean Draco couldn't mess around with a few appearance-changing charms.

When Professor Vector called an end to the exam, Draco was trying to charm the word "Slytherin" onto the silver side. Amid the chorus of groans from the students who hadn't finished, Draco stood up and picked up his bag, depositing the paper on Professor Vector's desk as he passed. He was about to head down to the Slytherin Common Room to clean up a bit and get lighter clothing on when a hand grabbed his arm and jerked him into an alcove behind a knight in full regalia.

"What is going on with you and Ginny?" Hermione Granger demanded, glaring at Draco.

Caught off guard, Draco just jumped and stared at her. "Hello, Malfoy? What is going on?"

"Why do I even have to answer to you? Weasley demanding information was one thing; you're not even related to Ginny." Draco was extremely tired of it all: tired of exams, tired of Harry Bloody Potter and his Company, tired of _being_ Draco Malfoy. He was also incredibly tired of walking around on eggshells because a few conversations with a Gryffindor. He was destined to be Head Boy, after all, what was wrong with him being friendly?

"I'm Head Girl."

"Not yet."

"Well, I will be." Granger was getting very irritated by now with Draco's stolid casualness.

Time to change tactics, as Draco was bored with this. "That's funny, Granger," he said, receiving a puzzled look from Granger. "I mean, whoever thought the two of us could be Head Boy and Girl? The must be something between us. In fact, I wish there _was _something. A country." Draco knew he was being childish, but he was too tired to care right now. If Granger was going to act stupid, then he had every right to.

"You won't be Head Boy, Malfoy. Dumbledore's already got Harry in his sights for Head Boy," Granger snapped. "He's better at everything than you are."

"That so?" Draco quirked an eyebrow at her. "I didn't know he was a brain-child. So he's just one level below you—because you took an extra class? So he had an entire shut-out season with only one team scoring against him? So he's nominated for 'Outstanding Hogwarts Quidditch Captains' by James Cochran?"

Granger flushed angrily. "He's not pure evil, at least."

"I really pity you if you think that evil is still in black and white—or green and red. You must have had a very deluded childhood." Draco, finally bored with the conversation, said, patting her on the shoulder in a paternal fashion. She recoiled from him just as he turned away. 

"Death Eater," Granger hissed as Draco stepped back into the hallway. 

Perhaps she expected Draco to be furious at her—she winced as he turned around and grinned at her. "Death Eater, did you say, Granger? No, I'm going to be the Minister of Magic."

"Lord help us all," somebody passing by muttered.

*

Ginny was reading out underneath a great willow tree when Draco found her. He'd searched everywhere but the Gryffindor Common Room, figuring that it was too hot of a day to be inside a stuffy tower. He had stopped by and peeked into Hagrid's hut, but Granger and Hagrid were eating lunch there with Weasley and Potter. Down by the lake hadn't been very successful either. Draco had been about to give up when Ginny's flaming plume of hair caught the sunlight in the corner of his eye. 

Ginny was deeply immersed in the adventures of poor Princess Amelia when a shadow fell across the page. Draco crouched next to her in his awkward half-kneel, half-crouch that looked painful. "How'd exams go for you?"

"I messed up my potion a bit and got a couple of points taken off, but otherwise I think I aced them. I'm no Hermione, but—"

"Awww," and Draco dropped to the ground beside her, looking exhausted. "You're twice the person Granger is, you're just too shy for anybody to realize it." Ginny couldn't help but notice that the dark circles under his eyes had only deepened over exams. When he reached up to brush a strand of red that had escaped the clasp of Ginny's hair-tie, she saw the scabs on his palm from his fingernails. She wanted to ask, "What's happening to you?" but held her tongue.

Instead, she asked, "How did exams go for you?"

"Great; perfect. A clean-sweep of full-scores, I'm sure," Draco said, leaning on one elbow and playing with the grass. He watched a caterpillar crawl along his index finger for a long moment before depositing it on Ginny's book. "Listen, I wanted to talk to you about what you asked me the other day."

"About whether you're a Death Eater or not," Ginny said dully, ignoring the flush of embarrassment rising to her cheeks.

"Yes, about that." Draco plucked up a strand of grass and held it taut between his hands. Raising his eyebrows, he blew into that and produced a shrill whistle. "I'm not a Death Eater and I would love to say that I'm never going to be."

Ginny only stared at him a long time.

"Look," and Draco pulled the sleeve of his gray shirt up to show his bare forearm. "No mark, nothing. You can do a revealing spell, there's nothing there." He brandished the arm for Ginny, but she shoved it away.

"The mark means nothing," she said in a closed, short voice that made him jump. She looked away from his bare arm and closed her eyes.

"I'm _not_ a Death Eater," he hissed, misinterpreting her. In one swift motion, he sat up and grabbed her shoulders. "If you don't believe the mark, then you'll have to believe my word. It's not something I like to give—people don't accept it."

"That's because ninety-five percent of the school hates you," Ginny said bitterly, leaning back against the tree. "I don't even want to face Harry or Ron tonight. Ron especially. He's going to be furious."

"Last time I checked, Weasley was only your brother."

"See, that's funny, because Weasley is my mum, too, and my father, and my uncle, and my loads of cousins, and my grandfather…"

"Okay, okay! I get the picture. Last time I checked, _Ron_ was only your brother." Draco rolled his eyes and threw his hands up as he flopped backwards onto the grass. "He's not your father, is he?"

"He likes to think he is. There's not even a year between us. We're both sixteen right now." Ginny watched him for a long moment, relaxed and seemingly innocent. He lay there in the grass, his chin tilted up in his typical defiance, but his face was angelic since she couldn't see his hardened eyes. She played with his thin hair for a moment. He winced away at first, but managed to hold still. "You're awfully jumpy today."

"It's been a long day. Miss Granger wanted a conference to…discuss my merits as a possible Head Boy. She quite delighted in falsely accusing me of being a Death Eater and thus pure evil," Draco said after a long pause. "Oh, yes, and Professor Snape wants to see me after dinner tonight. Don't scowl at me, I know you don't like the guy, but he's my favorite professor." Even with his eyes closed, Draco could predict Ginny's face. 

"And don't stick your tongue out at me, it's rude." Ginny laughed because she had done just that.

"Ahem." Another shadow fell across Ginny's lap. 

Ginny glanced up, dread icing the inside of her chest and stomach regions. "Oh, hullo, Ron. Wanting me?"

Ron glared daggers at Draco's prone figure. "You two seem to be awfully close. Why are you letting this filth touch you, Gin? Don't you have _any_ dignity?"

"Afternoon to you too, Wea—Ron," Draco commented without opening his eyes. "Hey, take one step forward. You're blocking my light. I'm working on a killer tan." Ron grudgingly took one step forward. "Yes, thanks, that's better." Ginny had to hide a snicker with a cough.

"Come on, Ginny," Ron snapped, offering his hand down. Draco opened his eyes and wormed up so that he was partially sitting up, resting on his elbows. "There are better people about to talk to."

Ginny looked between Ron and Draco, Ron looking furious, Draco looking composed and pale, a clear sign that he was starting to get annoyed. "Go," Draco said quietly. "I don't want to cause any problems in the family. I need to talk to Madam Hooch about Quidditch matters anyway. See you around, Ginny. You, too, Ron." He climbed smoothly to his feet and pulled Ginny up, squeezing her hand in a rare gesture before walking off.

"Strange git," Ron muttered as Ginny followed him away from her beloved tree. "What do you see in him?"

"A lot of things he doesn't."

*

"You wanted to see me, Professor?" Draco Malfoy poked his head into Snape's office and looked about for the professor. Unsurprisingly, he was not there. Draco was one of the only students who knew about Snape's horrible problems with punctuality. With a sigh, he crossed to the bookshelf against the wall and thumbed through the selections, finally picking out _Potions For When Life Gets You Down: An Intellectual Guide To Your Everyday Needs_. With that under his arm, he retreated to the chair he had waited in so many times for the Slytherin House Head to show and immersed himself in the guide.

"'It is essentially important to keep on a strong face when somebody you dearly love is breaking up with you,'" Draco read aloud, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of this book. His eyes trailed down the page where somebody had scrawled notes about the break-up potion. Fortunately for Draco, the handwriting wasn't Snape's. It was too scratchy and unorganized.

__

Geez, they have potions for break-ups? What is this world coming to? Draco was wondering to himself as a creak behind him warned him of the opening door. Draco set the book on the desk, intending to ask to borrow it after the meeting. He needed a good laugh; with finals and his dreams bothering him, it had been a long time since he had laughed.

The book, however, was wiped from his thoughts when he turned to look at the man who had entered the room. In fact, everything was wiped from his thoughts. The world had just inverted and dumped itself into his lap. His entire body tensed up and he clutched the arms of the ridiculously ornate chair with whitened knuckles. Gray eyes widened with rabbit-like fear as Draco Malfoy cringed away from what he had been running from for nearly a year.

Lucius Malfoy strode calmly up to Professor Snape's desk and leaned indolently against the chair, watching Draco's guarded eyes carefully. "You call yourself my son? You did not even look back when I entered the room. I could have been Dumbledore waiting to attack you. And it would have been easy for me."

"Attacking me always seemed to be your strong suit," Draco said through gritted teeth. He forced a pleasant look much like the one on his father's, and asked, "What brings you to Hogwarts, Father? There's not a week left—if you had wanted to beat me, I'm sure you could have waited. It's very touching that you traveled all this way—"

"Misters Malfoy," somebody interrupted from the door. Professor Snape stood there, cloaked in robes of deep black and maroon. He, like Draco, looked furious but managed to pass off for looking pallid. He moved quickly to the desk in a typical Snape move, and crossed his arms. "I'm sorry to interrupt your little father-son banter, but I have a meeting with young Draco here."

"A meeting with my son?" Lucius asked, straightening idly and raising an eyebrow at Draco.

"Yes, to discuss my prospects as Head Boy and Quidditch Captain," Draco said smoothly, well-accustomed to lying. "The author of 'Outstanding Hogwarts Quidditch Captains' is considering me for the top fifty captains. Not many other captains through Hogwarts have managed to have only one team score one goal on them. We've quite an exceptional team this year, in fact."

"Except for the Seeker." Lucius Malfoy did not bother to hide the contempt in his eyes or his voice as he regarded his son, making Draco feel ten years younger. Neither of the two made any change in expression as they stared at each other; Draco had once heard it rumored that somebody could beat Lucius Malfoy over the head with a club and his expression would not change. Draco was determined to match his father, step for step.

"Ah, Draco is one of the best Hogwarts has seen," Snape said diplomatically, moving to his desk chair. "It is unfortunate that his Quidditch reign should happen while Harry Potter is at Hogwarts—the boy has a rare innate ability that I doubt will meet much opposition. Draco is obviously the better captain. Many of the team are looking forward to reigning on the Pitch once again under his captaincy."

This was news to Draco. Professor Snape hardly said anything good in Draco's favor, even though Draco knew himself to be one of the picky professor's favorite subjects. Lucius Malfoy glared at the potions professor. "I'm sorry," Snape continued, "but I cannot let you stay here. Parents of attending students are supposed to report to Professor Dumbledore."

"Severus," Lucius growled, prowling forward and reaching for his left sleeve. "If You-Know—"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy. I adhere to Hogwarts laws within the walls of the castle. I will not allow you to harm my top student." Now Snape's eyes burned with a hatred so fierce that it nearly startled Draco into scooting back into his chair. There was no love lost between Lucius and Snape, obviously. If Draco had been pinned with that glare, he probably would have run off for the nearest cliff. He marveled that Lucius stood his ground for as long as he did.

Finally, Lucius left, slamming the door behind him in a very childish fit.

Without any ado, Snape reached over and plucked up the book Draco had been reading. "I'd forgotten that I owned this," he remarked carefully, reading the spine. "I was a more foolish man in yesteryears, Mr. Malfoy. We have not reached our peak of wisdom at the age of sixteen." He thumbed through it before handing it back to Draco. "You may borrow this book if it intrigues you."

"Yes, sir." Draco was used to cryptic remarks from Snape. He would mull over this one later. Right now, he had other things to worry about. "I lied to my father, didn't I? We're not here to discuss Quidditch, are we?" 

"If you wish to discuss Quidditch, then we will do so, but no, we are not." Professor Snape leaned forward and placed his chin on his clasped hands, his elbows resting on his desk. "I sense that you will be undergoing some big changes this summer."

"Bit of a understatement," Draco said in a forcefully cheery tone. "You are aware of my circumstances?"

"Much more so than you are, Mr. Malfoy," a new voice joined them. Professor Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, stepped into Professor Snape's office and smiled at both of the occupants. Both Snape and Draco stood up to acknowledge his presence. "Evening, Severus, Mr. Malfoy."

"Good evening."

The aged professor moved into the chair Draco pulled out for him and smiled up at the tall sixteen-year-old. "You show an old fool quite a bit of respect, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco, a straight-A student in Tactics and Comebacks 101, smiled back. "You're no more foolish than I am old, Professor." He sat down in his own chair and watched Snape pour three cups of tea.

"A double-edged comment, Mr. Malfoy, like yourself," Albus Dumbledore returned in high amusement. He accepted the cup of tea Snape passed him and reached for the condiments. Draco inclined his head at the Potions Master as he accepted his own cup and took a sip. The tea was some sort of raspberry tea, he could sense. Apparently, Snape had a fondness for raspberries…and was that lemon he could taste? Draco nearly smiled approvingly; the man had good taste in tea as he watched his favorite professor pour his own drink. Snape merely sipped his tea without tainting it with milk or sugar. Draco was quite pleased to find somebody else at Hogwarts who drank his tea hot and plain. Both Draco and Snape watched Professor Dumbledore pour milk into his own tea and stir it with his wand. "So, as I understand, you were born into the Order."

Hot tea splashed down Draco's hand into his sensitive cuts, making him wince. He had to admire Professor Dumbledore's bluntness. The man could give a sledge hammer a run for its Sickles. "Er, yes, sir, I was. I was the last child born into the Order."

"A remarkable feat." Professor Dumbledore peered at Draco through his half-moon spectacles, his eyes shining. "Now, as Severus has tried to explain the Order to me time and time again, let's see if I can get this right. Shortly after you were born, you were taken to Lord Voldemort, correct?" Professor Dumbledore looked for Draco's nod before he continued. "And he cursed you."

"That's right." Draco's throat was dry but he left his tea untouched. He wasn't sure if he could stomach it right then. "If I don't get the Dark Mark put on me by my seventeenth birthday, then…" He trailed off and struggled to swallow. "The death I would suffer would be most unimaginable." Now he did sip his tea, but the taste was so bitter that he nearly spat it back into the cup.

"I trust that you know what happened to those Death Eaters that were convicted," Professor Dumbledore said gently.

Draco looked up now, his eyes clear. The taste of the bitter tea still remained on his tongue, but he composed his face. "I researched every case known, Professor." Deep inside, he felt cold and sick, just like the child that had screamed in the dungeons.

"And what did it say of Severus Snape?" Professor Dumbledore prodded gently. 

Draco watched the potions master as he answered. "He was acquitted on your testimony, sir. The court file says no more than that." Feeling daring, he continued, "If I may be so…"

"Yes, go ahead with your presumptions," Snape said quickly in a voice that betrayed nothing. 

Draco shot him a questioning glance, but his next words were to Professor Dumbledore. "It almost seemed that Professor Snape was working for you, Professor." He swung his head over to Professor Dumbledore now, grey eyes piercing as they stared. When he was concentrating on something, they would become the color of steel. "You didn't _say_ anything of the sort, and the person who was recording the trial blamed it on a case of teacher-student relations. What strikes me about that is that most of the other Death Eaters that were convicted to Azkaban were from Hogwarts as well. It makes one wonder: why Professor Snape? There was a list of crimes beneath his file, just like everybody else's. His testimony was there, identical to the rest. He didn't even give the appearance of being any different. It didn't—and still doesn't—seem to me like a simple case of teacher-student affiliation."

Professor Dumbledore looked at Draco for a tense moment, eyes a-twinkle. For a fleeting of an instant, Draco had an absurd fear that he had upset the aging professor. This was not something Draco was accustomed to feeling; his training with Lucius Malfoy had taught him ruthlessness and cunning and had not included any humane sort of emotion. And, for the first time in his life, Draco was afraid of what somebody thought of him. Well, not just somebody—Albus Dumbledore.

Finally, Snape started laughing, a hearty, roaring laugh that Draco had never heard. "The boy's smart. What did I tell you, Albus?"

Draco stared between the two professors as one chuckled and the other shook with unnerving laughter. "Yes, you were quite right, Severus. I think our choice for Head Boy has been quite correct, though even I had my doubts," Albus agreed between chuckling fits. After he and Snape had stopped laughing, he turned to Draco. "You are perhaps the first student passing through Hogwarts to judge this information correctly, besides Mr. Potter and his crew. They could not help finding out, I am afraid."

The air in Snape's office turned quite serious just then. Pickled hog heads stared glassily down at them, the fire lit their faces with green. The hairs on the back of Draco's neck stood up as they were known to do when he felt threatened. "You're going to ask me not to join the Death Eaters, aren't you?" he asked suddenly, feeling ice slime up through his esophagus. To anybody watching, he would have appeared pale, like an albino rabbit ready to run. "You're going to ask me not to join because that's what good guys do, isn't it? Isn't it? Don't the good guys kill themselves before they will even think of becoming evil?"

Professor Dumbledore stopped him. "I would never ask a student to give his life," he said in quiet voice that meant business. "Instead, I've come here to ask you to join the Death Eaters."

Draco's mouth nearly dropped open, but he managed to avoid it. "But you knew I was going to, didn't you?" he insisted intently, eyes narrowing as he searched for the catch. "Why would you come ask me to do something I was already planning to?" Just like when he had seen Lucius in the doorway, he felt scared and confused and quite royally sick. This was not how he liked to feel at all. Draco Malfoy liked to be in control of his situations.

"You must join, we know that. But you do not have to join with the intention of becoming evil," Dumbledore told him gently. "I am asking you to make the hardest decision of your life. You don't have to answer me right away—you don't have to answer me ever, if you wish. No student will be sent to Azkaban while in Hogwarts unless they kill or purposely harm another student. Voldemort will not stand for that happening. 

"What I'm saying, Mr. Malfoy, is that I want you to give up your loyalty to your father and the Dark Lord – and join the Order of Phoenix."

Draco stopped short. The Order of Phoenix…that was supposed to be just some rumor, some 'good guy' club to be laughed at in the eerie green light of the Slytherin Common Room. It was merely Dumbledore's crack-pot organization to "put an end to the bad bogeys of the world and vanquish all evil." He himself had joked just last year that only Muggle-lovers and mudbloods joined this type of organization.

__

Say no, some obstinately evil voice in the back of Draco's mind chirped immediately. _Be evil, be like your father. C'mon, it'll be funny._ Draco's body temperature plummeted at this, but that was nothing to what his mind told him next._ You always wanted to anyway. What's stopping you now? The affections of some Gryffindor?_

"You mean, become a spy against the Death Eaters?" Draco repeated numbly, trying to ignore the voice and failing miserably. "Become a good guy and fight for world peace or whatever it is good guys fight for?"

Both professors stared at him intently, Professor Dumbledore's eyebrows raised. "Yes, Draco, that is what I am asking you to do. This is a difficult decision—I don't expect you to answer right away. Remember, should you choose to accept it, you may never outlive it." The wizened professor paused and sipped his tea before delivering the heavy blow. "In fact, this decision may kill you."

__

So no pressure, the annoying voice in Draco's head mused into the tense silence. His grip on the arms of the chair tightened in response, but he forced a pleasant look on his face. _Join and become a 'good guy.' Wear your heart on your vest. Give to charities. De-worm poor orphans in Somalia. _Draco's teeth gritted. _Say no, and become evil. In fact, you'll be just like your father if you say no._

"I'll do it," he said, leaping forward suddenly as though his seat had bitten him. His voice failed him, but he forced out, "I'll become a spy."

Professor Dumbledore, about to continue, stopped. "You don't have to answer me now," he said gently. "I was going to let you sleep on it." The two professors passed a troubled look between them that gave Draco mixed feelings. He wanted to be annoyed that somebody was troubled over him, but it was oddly touching. Certainly, his father would have never worried about him like that.

Draco swallowed loudly. "I know, Professor." He held up a hand to prevent either professor from interrupting him. "I'm a Slytherin. The sorting hat told me that I would resort to any means to get what I want. A year ago, I wanted nothing more than to join Voldemort's ranks as another mindless minion. But something's changed me—I don't even know if I'm a Slytherin anymore." He swallowed. "I don't want to be a Death Eater—I don't want to kill at all."

"What changed?" The question was never voiced, but it was in the eyes of Draco's two mentors as they just looked at him. Barely restraining the trembling that was threatening to take him, Draco extended both hands out, palms up. Both professors could see scabs there, forming into scars where Draco's fingernails had pierced his flesh. "My father is a formidable figure. It is wise not to cross him. I trust that you will let me leave it at that."

This was not something Severus Snape wanted to hear. The professor rose from his desk and started to sweep towards his bookshelf, but one look from Professor Dumbledore stopped him. Resignedly, he nodded. "For the time being, we will. If these troubles should continue, the Order of Phoenix will be forced to do something about them." Draco blinked—why was the apathetic Potions Master standing up for him so vehemently?

"Perhaps," Albus Dumbledore said into the shocked silence that followed, "if you are willing to join the Order of Phoenix, you will meet me in my office tomorrow night at this time? Professor Snape will be waiting for you in his office. He will escort you from there. The password to my gargoyle, Severus, is Cadbury."

"Cadbury?" Draco asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Muggle chocolate, my boy." Albus Dumbledore stood at this, looking quite pleased with himself. "We're thankful to have you on the team, Draco. You're a formidable character—it should be quite the addition for our side. I, for one, would be proud to have you stand with us. Hogwarts is honored to have such a Head Boy."

Draco stood as well, trying not to let the flush rise to his cheeks. "Thank you, sir." He followed Professor Dumbledore out of the office as Snape waved them out. He had made it all the way to the Slytherin Common Room before he realized that he had left his book in Snape's office. Sighing, he resolved to get it the next day and went up to meet the Quidditch team. The night was far from over—he still had to deal with Malcolm Baddock, stubborn prat of the fourth year.

*

"So nice of you to join us, _Captain_."

Draco paused on the threshold to the dungeon, watching the figures within through impassive eyes. "Hello, all," he said, pointedly ignoring Baddock's barbed welcome as he stepped inside and automatically took the seat Flint had grudgingly vacated at the head of the table. The thickset boy sat next to Millicent Bulstrode, throwing a distrusting look in her direction as she did so. "So, what have we come up with in the time I was out talking to Professor Snape?"

"It looks like you're Captain again," Tiger offered as she leaned back and flopped both hands on the table. Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw Baddock stiffen and try not to look too upset with this decision. The younger boy kept a cool face as he pulled a hand through his dark ponytail. "A problem, Malcolm?" Tiger asked sweetly, not very subtly hiding a glare in his direction as the low torchlight glinted off of her black hair.

"No, Tiger," Baddock subsided meekly.

Crabbe muffled a snorting laugh. Tiger Jawkins, petite and pretty, barely looked like she could take on a ten-year-old. The Slytherin Quidditch team, however, knew that she had a temper that Pansy Parkinson, winner of the Slytherin Poorest Anger-Management Award, could hardly hold a candle to. She had given black eyes to too many people to count, and was not afraid to show off the fact that she held a black belt in Tai Kwon Do. Her Muggle mother was a Karate Master of sorts. At first, nobody was quite sure how a half-blood had gotten into Slytherin, but time proved little Tiger to be the most devious of the lot.

Renton Marx leaned forward now, his poker face firmly in place. "The decision was easy," he told Draco. "You're the natural leader. Baddock wanted to overthrow you," and he sent a glare in Baddock's direction, "but we like winning." The fifth-year nearly matched Draco in height, but he was of average weight so he looked much larger. He spoke in a thick Jamaican accent that Draco was quite positive girls swooned over.

"Well, I'm touched," Draco said, pulling a manila folder out and thumbing it open. "Unless we hit some totally random all-star player, this is the starting team for next year. Congratulations, everybody, for deciding to stay with the team. I'm sure we'll pull off a shutout season next year. I have faith in our abilities—let's show the rest of the school we're better than them, shall we?" This was met with several snickers and coughs. "First order of business: Reserve players. We need them, and we need them to be as good as the rest of us. While the spring looks sparse, the well is not dry, so what do we have? Anybody know of likely candidates?"

"Way ahead of you." Tiger reached into her own manila folder and pulled out a clipping, sliding that across the table to Draco. "These two are second years. They don't look related, but don't let that fool you—they're twins." One glance at the photograph told Draco that these two were Beaters. "Jacob and Lacy Dunkirk. The Gryffindors did so well with the Weasley twins as Beaters, I thought it might be a suitable technique."

"Interesting thinking," Draco complimented. "Copying Gryffindor, however?"

"So?" Tiger asked. "If it had worked for the Ravenclaws, I would have done it. We're Slytherins, guys, who cares who we copy? If it works, we win. That's all that matters."

"Hear, hear!" Crabbe agreed raucously. Renton raised an imaginary glass in a toast and smiled as he pretended to sip.

"Anybody else?" Draco asked Tiger, all business now.

"I've got more coming, don't you worry."

For the next ten minutes, Tiger pulled out hopeful after hopeful, explaining why she thought each would be suitable for a position. After she had pulled out the last hopeful (Clarence Hugh), Draco collected the eight pictures and rifled through them. Carefully, he divided them up into seven piles—two Beaters, three Chasers, one Keeper, and two Seekers. "The only problem would be picking between these two," he said, pointing to the two Seeker hopefuls, Lionel Kempforth and Bobby Burkes. "Crabbe, Flint, what do you think?"

Each of the Beaters pointed to a different picture. "Jawkins?" Tiger pointed to Bobby's picture. "Marx?" Renton dutifully chose Lionel. "Bulstrode?" Millicent selected Bobby. "Baddock?" Baddock tapped Lionel. "So it's up to me, then."

"Well, both of them are training for your position," Renton pointed out. "Why don't we check all of these players out over the summer, and decide the first day of school next year?"

"A good idea, Marx. Anybody second that?"

Baddock cleared his throat. "I'll second it."

Draco gave the younger boy a long look before nodding. "Very well. We will meet over the summer. Any dates that anybody can't make it?" Nobody said anything. "Does July sound good? All right, then."

"Where?" Millicent interrupted. "My house can't fit fifteen extra people."

Draco glanced around. Tiger lived in a Muggle apartment in London, so that was definitely out of question. Renton's estate was expansive, but he wouldn't want visitors. Crabbe's place was under serious surveillance and it wouldn't be wise to upset the Ministry. Flint's house would be a decent place, but Draco was quite sure Marcus would find an excuse to come home and try to retake the Slytherin team. Draco refused to stay at Baddock's house, so there was only one option.

"We'll meet at Malfoy Manor on July first. My mother would love the extra company, and we have a Quidditch field out back. I will talk my father into getting us a Quaffle and a couple of Bludgers. We will owl all of the hopefuls and invite them to come along. Everybody agreed?" When he received six nods, Draco paged through the manila folder. "Now, on to strategies for next year…"

*

Draco rolled over on his bed and wished for about the fifth time in that many minutes that he could fall asleep. Three days until the end of term, and everybody was excited about going home. Most people wouldn't be thrashing with nervousness right then. Why did he have to be different? Why couldn't he just be a mindless minion of the dark forces and be eager to go home to Lucius and Lord Voldemort? He punched his pillow as he rolled over again, trying to tame his roaming thoughts. He needed sleep—didn't want it, but needed it—and rolling around in fits like this didn't help.

Somewhere to the left, Crabbe snorted and muttered something about rats and death. Draco smirked. Crabbe was deathly afraid of rats, just like Draco was deathly afraid of his father. Goyle claimed he feared nothing, but Draco was quite sure that snakes sent the hulking man cowering like a small mouse forced into the corner by an alley cat. Goyle Sr. had been trying beat this out of Gregory, but to no avail. He hadn't even been brought to the Junior Death Eater meetings over the summer because of that fear.

Draco sighed and punched his pillow yet again. Crabbe and Goyle had been angered that he was the only Order Brat of their generation, the only child branded by Lord Voldemort's curse. Just this summer, they had gotten jealous of his promised standings in the Dark Circle. They were insanely jealous of Draco's upcoming promotion into Lord Voldemort's ranks. Both of them would have to wait until graduation from Hogwarts and to pass several tests of faith. Draco would be admitted without a second thought—he was practically one of Lord Voldemort's own now. Out of jealousy, Crabbe and Goyle had taken to snubbing him openly instead of following him about in apt admiration. Draco accepted the change with mixed feelings.

It was a custom for the children to get the curse from Voldemort at two years old, but somehow Draco had been cursed on his first birthday, nearly two months before Voldemort's downfall. Now, nearly sixteen years after, he wished that his father hadn't pulled the strings to get him cursed so early. Then somehow, he could run away from this evil Dark Mark that loomed ahead in his future. After all, escaping directly from Hogwarts when he was a full wizard would have been marked easy on Draco's roster.

Draco sighed and sat up, pushing open his curtains a mite to glance at Goyle's alarm clock. 'Too late to be awake,' stared back at him. With another gusty sigh, Draco plucked up an old T-shirt. The ever-present scars on his back, hidden by a concealing spell, pulled as he jerked the shirt over his head. Dressed haggardly in old clothing, Draco looked more like he belonged with the Weasleys than with the Malfoys. He didn't give this a second thought as he escaped the confining dorm room and headed down to the kitchens for something to eat. Maybe food would quell his stomach enough to sleep. He pulled on his bathrobe as he walked through the Common Room.

The hallways of Hogwarts were, of course, forbidden to most students after lights out was called but Draco was not worried. As a prefect, he was perfectly allowed to wander at all hours as long as he gave the excuse, "Granger said that it was my night to keep guard." The teacher who had caught him would always just nod and turn away wearily. If nothing else, Draco's late-night wanderings were reminders of Lord Voldemort's returned power. Before Lord Voldemort's threats and return, there had been no night guard, no reason for students, teachers, and ghosts to sacrifice their sleep. Draco wasn't even sure if ghosts did sleep, but the point applied nonetheless.

Instead of the kitchens, however, his feet carried him through the dungeons, slapping on the night-cool stone. His mind wandered along behind as his body followed some daily sort of ritual. Somehow or other, he found himself in the corridor to the Potions classroom. Pausing, he blinked in confusion. He hadn't meant to come here at all. 

Well, since he was here, might as well try to get the book from Snape's office.

Eternally grateful that teachers didn't keep locks on their classroom doors (he doubted that locks could hold dear Voldemort out, so what was the use?), Draco slid inside, blinking around in the darkness of the Potions classroom. Three uniform rows of benches and desks, each equipped with a set of ingredients and obsidian black cauldron, stared unrepentantly back at him. The skin on the back of his neck crawled as he slipped past Snape's desk and eased open the door to the office.

The office was not empty. 

"Mr. Malfoy," Professor Snape drawled without so much as flickering an eye away from the cauldron he was perched over. Draco, startled at once again hearing his name tumble from the Professor's lips, jumped. "I knew you would be up here sooner or later."

"Sorry, Professor," Draco apologized almost absently. "I didn't know you were still up."

"So you just randomly decide that it is perfectly find to break into offices if the teachers aren't there? Have you no morals, boy?" Professor Snape asked, although his voice lacked the angry bitterness Draco was accustomed to hearing.

Draco had never felt so unafraid of Snape as he did now. "No, sir, only your office. I meant to retrieve the book you lent me earlier." He glanced over Snape's shoulder, trying to read the untidy stacks of parchment littered across the professor's desk. Snape's fastidiously neat script scrawled across them, covering every blank spot. Draco didn't have to read far before figuring out that the Potions Master was brewing a very simple strengthening potion. Doubtless, the cauldrons would need it with the exams just completed. "I'm not a kleptomaniac, despite the beliefs of certain Gryffindors."

"Is that so?" Professor Snape said dryly, tossing a pinch of foul-smelling white powder into the cauldron. "It's on the shelf, exactly where you found it earlier." Nodding, Draco mutely crossed to the shelf and pulled out the book, jerking as it felt warm in his hands. "Books are strange things, aren't they?"

"Sir?" Draco turned slowly and gave the cold professor an inquisitive glance. Professor Snape had stopped the feverish stirring and was staring into space at a point just above Draco's blond head. "Professor? Are you feeling all right?"

Professor Snape twitched slightly and gave him a glare. "I'm quite fine, Mr. Malfoy." He stared directly at Draco, as though seeing into him. Draco squirmed uncomfortably, but refused to show any uneasiness at all. If there was one thing he respected his father for, it was his ability to remain indifferent and collected. Somebody could beat Lucius Malfoy with a diamond club and he would not give them so much as the time of day. Draco respected him, and hated him.

"Well, if you're sure, sir, I think I'll be heading back to my dorm." Draco turned to head for the door, but Professor Snape's next words stopped him.

"How many strange books have you come across in your life, Mr. Malfoy?" the potions professor asked, giving his best student an astutely questioning stare. "You've never, in all of your years of studying, come across a book that claims ownership?"

Crevices burned into Draco's forehead. "No, I don't think so," he said vaguely. "Why would you want to know, sir?" Professor Snape was making him more uneasy than he would ever like to admit; the Potions Master was never like this in broad daylight, if broad daylight could be found in the dungeons.

"Couldn't sleep, could you? Wanted to head down to the kitchens for some food?" Professor Snape continued, lurching forward a step. Draco, not expecting this, jumped and cursed at himself for letting that bit of information slip. Snape's eyes did not miss this; they missed very little whenever Draco was talking to him. "A-ha, I see. You couldn't sleep, you headed down to the kitchens, and you found yourself here." In the half-light of the dungeon office, the tortured bruises beneath Snape's eyes jumped out harshly against the strained white skin. Draco refrained from backing into the wall, telling himself very forcefully that this was only his favorite professor, not some demented lunatic.

"How did you know that?" he demanded instead.

Snape reached forward with one spidery hand, spidery like Lord Voldemort's and like Lucius's. "Take a long look at that book, Mr. Malfoy. It's one of the strangest books in existence—it has a soul."

"A soul?" Draco asked uneasily, finally glancing down at the cover. An angry red staggered cross glared up at him, surrounded by a protective green circle. Behind that, a hazy gray background faded in and out, enchanted to throb painfully. Draco nearly dropped the book; why hadn't he noticed this before? Earlier, the cover had been blank.

Professor Snape laughed heartily, just as he had earlier that evening. Draco felt his tensed shoulders relax; the laugh, while creepy, had an ironically calming note to it. "This book claims ownership over a person. It chooses the person specifically, perhaps its scents out the needs and fears of that person," the professor explained when the laughter had subsided. "I never bothered to figure it out. The book chooses a person and goes with them everywhere."

"So I'm bonded to a book?" Somehow, the idea just did not appeal to him. Being owned by a book was certainly not Draco's life dream. He had actually hoped to become the Minister of Magic, not some book-slave. That was more Granger's alley.

"The bond is not permanent," Professor Snape assured, as though sensing Draco's worry. The man was a bloodhound for that sort of thing, Draco reflected silently. He had an unnerving ability to second-guess the questions before Draco had even managed to form them properly in his mind. "The book will eventually choose a new soul to claim and help."

The manual lay in his hands, lost of its innocent charm and humorous backing. What had only been a few ounces minutes before had now become a deadweight, weighing him down. He felt nothing but dread towards this epitome of his worst fear—slavery. Still, he would try to stomach it for now. "So I may keep the book?" he asked, trying to keep his tone neutral.

"You won't sleep until you do," Professor Snape commented blithely, returning to his cauldron. "Yes, yes, keep the book. I'm certainly through with it, it's been wasting away in my office waiting for a new owner." He stirred vigorously at the potion, the rod stabbing vindictively at the liquid. "You may go now, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco was still staring at the book, trying to figure out what his brain was screaming at him. "Sir? You weren't the last owner of this book?" he finally asked, puzzled.

Professor Snape did not look up, although his stirring paused. Instead, he stared into the cauldron, shoulders moving imperceptibly. "Just out of curiosity, Mr. Malfoy," and the 'Malfoy' was hissed out as though it was a curse, "have you ever loved anybody?"

The question nearly threw Draco from his feet. "What?" he spluttered, trying not to let his surprise show. "Have I ever loved anybody?" Suddenly, the floor tiles in front of his toes were very interesting. _Had_ he ever loved anybody? Certainly not his father, that was out of the question. Narcissa was merely a mothering entity, something to be grateful for and skirted around. There was nobody…but… Draco looked up after a long moment. "No," he admitted. "I never loved anybody." Professor Snape turned away abruptly, whether for anger or annoyance Draco did not know. "I never loved a soul, but I could. I really could."

Snape turned back with a blank face. "Then maybe there is hope for you after all. You are not, as Dumbledore feared, the rebel without a cause." He paused and a closed look seized his face. "All students should be in their dormitories at this hour. I would advise you do the same."

Draco nodded, feeling numb inside as he stared to shuffle to the door. His feet just didn't want to seem to work properly. "Thank you, Professor, for the book."

Professor Snape did not look up. He sighed instead. "I apologize for my harsh words. The book belonged to your mother. Go to bed, Dr—Mr. Malfoy."

The uniform rows of desks and cauldrons stared at him as Draco stepped out of the office and closed the door firmly behind him. He gazed back sightlessly for a long moment before the book in his hand seemed to twitch and draw him back to wakefulness. Sighing, he crossed the room and swept into the corridor. There was so much he didn't understand about the Order of Phoenix, about Professor Snape, and about himself. Draco's stomach roiled almost angrily as he entered the Slytherin Common Room and headed for his room.

Somehow, even with the book, he didn't think sleep was going to come easily tonight.


	3. Bound and Scarred

A/N: Sorry this chapter took so long to get out! It was a terrible beast to write! This is another slog chapter, but the next chapter will be mostly action (I hope). More confusing mysteries added here, so beware, beware.

Shoutouts: Shout outs go to Apocalypse and Danette, my AWESOME beta readers, for stepping up and aiding me so much. And of course, to all of those who listened to me whine and waited so patiently for this chapter!

****

Bound and Scarred

Chapter Three

__

Help me carry on

Show me it's okay to

Use my heart and not my eyes

To navigate the darkness

-Crawling in the Dark, Hoobastank

Bound.

It was a terrifying thought, yet one he could not avoid. Draco Malfoy could not call himself aloof and alone anymore-he was bound to his very soul. His words had bound him to the Order of Phoenix, his soul had bound him to the Soul Book, and on his seventeenth birthday, a mark would bind him to a league of death and pain. And, in some way he could never hope to perceive, he was bound to Ginny Weasley.

On the day of the Leaving Feast, Draco woke early from another nightmare that covered him in sweat and renewed his healthily growing fear. Knowing that it would be hours before any of his roommates would wake up, he pulled on his normal school robe over his pajamas and padded out. After the incident with his highly expensive Quidditch jersey, Draco had put much more consideration in his bedtime attire. As of late, he had taken to wearing shirts that he would not mind being torn up to bed. Today, his shirt read "Puddlemere United Seeker" and his shorts were covered in little golden Snitches. His mother had bought him the shorts on another bout of sickening motherliness, but some part of his conscience nagged him to wear them occasionally. He doubted that anybody (but Ginny) would be awake to see his attire, so he did not care.

His nightmare the night before had been an awful one, a repeat of the nightmare he had experienced several times before. Always, Draco woke up with the slimy hands upon his neck, washing his very soul with cold. The Death Devourer, for that was what had caused the sickeningly slimy sensation, had probably been Lucius's idea. Death Devourers were just that-they ate sickness away from people, and it, in turn, made them hideous to look at and horrible to be touched by. Somehow, Lucius had figured out about Draco's phobia of sick and dying people, so the Death Devourer was only another thing brought on to torture the young Malfoy heir.

Although he normally read the book Professor Snape had given him in the morning, he surpassed that this morning. He arrived at the door to the Prefect's Bathroom in a state hovering between wakefulness and exhaustion. If Ginny saw this, she would chide him and send him back to bed, he was sure. Carefully, he composed himself, smoothing out the lines of his T-shirt, straightening his shoulders, calming his sleep-rumpled hair. Once he was certain he would pass inspection, he said the password.

And opened the door to find himself in the midst of a party going on, full swing.

It was one thing to walk in and see Ginny Weasley surrounded by a pillow of churning water as she made rapid cuts across the pool. It was quite another to see Ron Weasley bellowing across the room to Harry Potter as they tossed a ball back and forth between them over the heads of other partygoers. Draco's lip curled as his eyes roamed over the lot of people in the pool; there was not a prefect in sight. Was this Potter and Weasley's little plan, cooked up to scare Ginny away from him? It had to be. Would they really stoop that low? 

A determined gleam in his eye, he walked over to the stereo (obviously charmed to play at Hogwarts) and broke it in half with an audible _snap_.

For a moment, the room was deathly silent, the only sounds those of the water lapping against the sides of the pool. Then Ron Weasley's eyes nearly exploded out of his head and he shouted, "Malfoy! You-"

Draco was not about to let him finish his sentence. He waved his wand at the stereo irritably and repaired it before snapping it across the room with a simple Banishing spell. "Anybody care to tell me what's going on here?" he demanded in a cool voice, eyes roving to each partygoer's. He did not receive the insane pleasure that had once come upon seeing utter fear in the eyes of the Hufflepuffs and complete loathing from the Gryffindors.

"Surely you must know a party when you see one, Malfoy," Potter said coldly.

The game of cat-and-mouse had come alive again, Draco noted as he smirked, leaning casually against the wall. He could have been wearing a tutu and still have commanded as much respect as he would have in formal robes. The fact that he wore Snitches on his shorts did not lessen the confidence in his air, nor the respect he demanded. "Yes, I would, actually. Very astute of you to observe that, Potter." The smirk disappeared from his face as if it had not been there at all. "I also know how to recognize a ruse when I see one, as well. Do you think you're mighty clever, working it so that Ginny can't have the pool at this hour?"

"Yes," Weasley said stonily. The other people in the pool had started to stray to the edges of the pool, but Weasley and Potter stood their ground.

Draco's eyebrow lifted in the slightest challenge. Trust Gryffindors to be painfully straightforward. "And not a prefect among you, I notice. Fancy telling me how you got in here?" When nobody voiced explanations, he removed his lanky form from the wall and paced casually. "Now, the rules state that I am allowed to take five to ten points from each person I catch breaking a rule, depending on the severity of the rule. Now, I would say that trespassing is a pretty severe crime, so that would wager around nine points from each of you. Wouldn't you agree?" His caustic grin landed on Potter now, who was turning almost as red as Weasley was.

"McGonagall wouldn't let you get away with taking so many points," Potter said, sounding quite sure of himself.

"Oh, but Harry, Harry, Harry," Draco purred, excitement spurring a sadistic grin onto his face. "You forget—it's written quite clearly in the rules. McGonagall may be strict, but she's fair. I give her a logical explanation—and I cannot tell a lie, my friends—and she will believe me. I count eight Gryffindors and three Hufflepuffs. That's seventy-two points from Gryffindor and twenty-seven from Hufflepuff, isn't it?"

Weasley was turning a much deeper shade of red now, much to Draco's delight. "You stay away from my sister, Malfoy!" He held the ball like a Quaffle, readying to chuck it at Draco's head.

Knowing that he had just entered dangerous territory, Draco slowly turned his head to look at Weasley. "Temper, Weasley. This has nothing to do with your sister, worry you not. I just enjoy keeping the rights earned by being better students than you to those who have earned them." He was now officially tired of these people-time to sign the checks and close the case. His poker face slid into place. "If you leave now, however, I will only take twenty points from Gryffindor and five from Hufflepuff. If you choose to stay, I will take the amounts I told you earlier."

The party was officially over. The Hufflepuffs left first, not willing to lose any more than five points. Most gave him angry looks as they passed him, but Draco really did not care. Reputation with the Hufflepuffs really did not matter to him. He watched in triumph as the Gryffindors slowly slunk out with their tails between their legs. Potter and Weasley left last, after having retrieved Weasley's stereo. Weasley paused for a full moment at the door to glare at Draco, who gazed back in an unaffected manner. "Better not tell your girlfriend, Weasley," Draco warned, a grin barely tugging at the corners of his mouth. "She might take points as well."

With a sour look to rival any look Draco had received in his life, Weasley stormed out. Potter glared at him hatefully before he pushed past Draco.

"And it's Malfoy one, Potter zero," Draco muttered under his breath. Now that the people were gone, he allowed a furious look to cross his face. They had done this, this _seizing_ of the pool, on purpose. Did they not realize that swimming was the only thing keeping Ginny Weasley from falling apart? Even though his conversations with Ginny numbered to a little more than a handful, Draco had seen enough to realize that Ginny Weasley kept more under the surface than the rest of her family. Were Potter and Weasley that thick? Were they purposely out to hurt her?

Shaking his head in frustration, Draco decided that yes, stupid people like Potter and Weasley really were that stupid. With that revelation in mind, Draco went to change the point scores for Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. Maybe he would take just a little more than he had told them he would take. He _was _still a Slytherin, after all, and weren't Slytherins notorious for breaking their word?

He hoped Ginny would be there when he got back.

*

"I can't believe him, that bloody idiot," Harry grumbled to his best friends. He received an admonishing look from Hermione about his language, but he ignored it and continued complaining. "I can't believe he had the audacity to take points from us like that! It was just a party, for crying out loud!" 

He had said the wrong thing, for Hermione turned a very abrupt and angry shade of red. "And I can't believe you had the audacity to do that to Ginny!" she snapped, leveling them with an incredibly furious look. Both Ron and Harry jumped; they had expected Hermione to take their side in this argument. "She's tried so hard not to rub this friendship with Malfoy in your face, Ron, and you _deliberately _provoke her! I'm surprised the poor girl didn't run off crying when she came in!" The three were enjoying an early breakfast while most of the rest of the school (except the partygoers scattered about the Great Hall) slumbered in peace.

Being male, Harry and Ron were required to scramble to fix the broken egos that Hermione had not-so-delicately smashed. However, Ron just gaped open-mouthed at their friend, instead of coming up with some defense. Always the hero, Harry jumped to the rescue. "She didn't run away crying. And besides, it was for her own good," he argued, pointing his fork at Hermione. 

"For her own good?" Hermione repeated, her voice rising in pitch. Harry furtively glanced around and realized that they had attracted the attention of every person in the Great Hall, including (much to his embarrassment) his latest crush. "For her own good? Harry, you great fool, can't you just leave the poor girl _alone_? I don't care if you think it's for her own good-it's destroying her and it's as cruel as a Slytherin! She's done nothing to you, and yet you constantly follow her and destroy her life!"

Harry did not like being called a fool any more than Ron liked being compared to a Slytherin. Ron, for the second time that day, turned ruddy and protested loudly at this remark. "Destroying her? We're keeping her from that-that prat! Doesn't know what she wants, always hanging about with Slytherins and shifty types!" He slammed his fist into the table to prove his point and only succeeded in knocking over Harry's pumpkin juice. The boy hero scrambled to get out of the way of the impeding juice.

"Ron," Hermione said in a very soft and equally dangerous voice, "Ginny is nearly sixteen. I think she has some inkling of what she wants. What she wants is neither your choice to make, nor is it your place to criticize. If she wants to be friends with Draco Malfoy, let her be! She'll realize her mistakes in time." She gave an aggravated sigh, seeing that Harry's battle with the pumpkin juice was, well, fruitless, and waved her wand. Instantly, the juice evaporated, leaving the boy hero clean and embarrassed. "Now eat your toast like a good boy. We still need to see Dumbledore about our summer assignments and I'm positive you two haven't packed."

"Why does _she_ always get the last word?" Ron grumbled to Harry as he picked up his toast and obediently took a bite. 

*

Draco was grateful to see that Ginny was alone in the Prefect's Bathroom when he arrived back from changing the points tally. He had taken less from Hufflepuff than he originally said he would, but he had taken quite a bit more from Gryffindor. As usual, he left a note (using the quill spelled against lies) explaining why he had taken the points. He was almost positive that quite a few of the guilty students would receive detentions from this if it weren't the day of the Leaving Feast.

Ginny did not notice Draco as he entered, which was not a surprise. On some days, she swam at a leisurely rate, more out of habit than anything. Today, however, she attacked the water as if there was no tomorrow. Her normally languid crawl was a frenzy of flurrying arms and legs and red hair. He sat down to wait at the edge of the pool until Ginny could calm down some. Another trip into the pool to save her life was just not exactly what he needed at the moment.

It was then that he finally realized what was going to happen. Even though he had not really known Ginny for that long, Draco realized that she had become some sort of pedestal, a person he could talk to and not have to watch his every move. In a very short time, he had built a dependence on her, a dependence that could not exist during the summer. During the summer, he was on his own, facing a man who had raised a whip to him and a woman who saw motherhood as a mere role to be played. It was going to be a long two months without seeing Ginny. 

Things were going to be different next year when he saw her again. Heck, he realized, _if_ he saw her again. It was very likely that he would be found out as a traitor and killed. If Lucius Malfoy had no qualms about beating his son, there wouldn't be a thing stopping him from saying an Unforgivable Curse on the spot. Draco knew that his father's loyalties were absolute-not even the heir of his every knut could stand between Lucius and true power. It was a sickening reality, and one Draco was slowly getting used to. There was no father-son love in his family, only the slightest respect and a healthy loathing. Draco wondered slightly how long he would live, and if he would even survive the summer.

Would _Ginny_ still be alive, for that matter? Her family was the most prominent family in the Order of Phoenix; Draco had already heard of death-threats and near-escapes involving her older brothers. It was rumored around school that Ron had even survived an encounter with Lord Voldemort (something that had stuffed up his head quite a bit). Draco knew that Ginny was a card-carrying member of the Order of Phoenix, like the rest of her family. She was friends with Muggle-born witches and wizards, thus targeting her even more. The possibility of death and capture existed as strongly for her as it did the others. One Weasley had nearly died, two had escaped, another had faced the Dark Lord himself. Would Ginny be next?

"You're thinking pretty deeply for somebody on the edge of a pool," a voice interrupted his musings. Draco shifted slightly to see Ginny, her hair made crimson by the water, clinging to the edge of the pool a few feet away and smiling at him. She wore her normal swimming clothing-a long-sleeved black shirt and shorts-despite the heat. For a moment, Draco considered asking her why she didn't just buy a bathing suit, and thought better of it. He wasn't sure how well off the Weasleys really were, and he didn't want to start a fight about that now. It was, after all, the day of the Leaving Feast.

"You're swimming pretty hard for somebody in a bathtub," Draco quipped back. Ginny let a squeal of indignation and splashed water at him. To her delight, Draco flinched away and nearly fell in. "That wasn't nice."

"Oh, so I have to be nice to you now?" Ginny mocked. The grin this brought didn't last very long, however, because Draco used his Quidditch reflexes and jumped at her. His momentum, as well as the arm he wrapped around her shoulders, was enough to pull her into the water and succeed in soaking the pair of them. Before Draco could avoid falling in, however, Ginny grabbed his arm and pulled him with her. Draco surfaced before Ginny did, laughing hard enough to turn his face red. A moment later, Ginny resurfaced and offered him an indignant squeak that quickly turned to laughter. Draco pushed his hair out of his eyes and favored her with a mischievous grin.

"That was evil," Ginny commented when the laughter had exhausted itself. "And now look, you're all wet."

"Your fault," Draco coughed out, shaking his head and sending water everywhere. He was up to his lower chest, water dripping off of his nose. "If you hadn't grabbed my arm, I wouldn't have been pulled under."

"If you hadn't jumped at me, you wouldn't have been pulled under," Ginny corrected. Her grin broadened as Draco pulled himself back onto the side of the pool, sloshing water all over the place. The grey T-shirt clung to his skin and offered Ginny a view of well-defined chest muscles. Draco Malfoy definitely worked out, it seemed, and years of Quidditch had refined him considerably. Ginny felt her face growing a very bright red as he pulled the shirt off and tossed it aside. Before she could turn away, he spotted this and grinned very smugly. "What are you grinning at?"

"You." Draco leaned back in a confident manner, his smirk firmly in place. He crossed his arms, nearly trilling with pleasure when Ginny tried to avoid staring at him. "Never seen a guy with his shirt off before?"

"Who are you kidding? I've seen you in your boxers," Ginny retorted quickly. It was Draco's turn to flush, although he acquired no more than a pink tinge to his cheeks. "And I've got six older brothers, all of whom like to swim. Figure that one out." At Draco's short-lived scowl, she gave her most innocent look. "So, what are you doing down here so early? It's the last day-you should be sleeping." 

If she was expecting an answer, she never got it. Draco stood and arched his back like she had seen him do before, preparing to dive. It was then that Ginny saw them.

Seven lines, all faint, all spidery, traced across Draco's shoulders and down along his back. In the dim light of the Prefect's Bathroom, Ginny could barely see them, but she knew with a nauseating burst of insight that these were whip marks. Somebody had taken a whip and had flayed him repeatedly with it. This was no magical spell, this was deliberate and malicious cruelty. Ginny let out a small gasp.

For a long, horribly tense moment, Draco stood there, arched to dive, and stared at her. An infinity later, his eyes traced a painfully slow path from her gaze to his exposed back. The soft, venomous curse hung between them, the only sound. Ginny gaped like a fish about to become the main course.

"Draco, what-" she gushed, eyes wide and frightened that something so awful could happen to him.

She did not get very far into her question, for Draco snapped to a rigid position, his face closed. "No," he interrupted, not moving. "Just no, all right?" When Ginny blinked at him, confused and hurt, he scooped up the sopping T-shirt and shoved that over his head with deliberate force. His hair stuck out wildly, accenting the crazed look in his eyes. "There's a lot you don't know about me. Keep it that way." With that, he stalked out of the bathroom.

Ginny, left alone, could only stare and wonder what had just happened.

*

Blaise Zabini was only on the very fringes of descent into the realm of the awake when Draco Malfoy crashed blindly into the dormitory, soaked through to the bone and looking hideously furious. He did not appear to either notice or care that he was making enough noise to combat a symphony orchestra, nor that his crashes and bangs were waking the sleeping occupants of his dormitory. Crabbe and Goyle, being heavy sleepers, were able to ignore Draco's cacophony of furious clattering, but Blaise was not nearly as adaptable. Grumbling silently, he clambered across his bed to peer through the hangings. "Fancy telling me why you're making such a racket?" he demanded grumpily.

Draco did not even spare him a look. "Bug off." 

Blaise's eyes narrowed in suspicion; Draco's clothing was dripping, but he did not smell like lake water. Had the Malfoy heir fallen in? The thought, as amusing as it was, definitely coordinated with the fact that Draco looked incredibly angry. He had stopped moving about the room with the fury of a flock of harpies, but he was making a lot of noise going through his trunk. Blaise watched him in confusion as he withdrew a crystal bottle filled with…whiskey?

He knew that Draco had changed considerably over the past year, so it confused him as to why Draco would actually own a whiskey bottle. He did not think that Draco took alcohol at all-he had certainly turned it down during the infrequent games of poker he took a hand in. So why was Draco drinking at all, if not now of all times?

"Erm, Malfoy, why are you all wet?" Blaise asked hesitantly, emerging completely from the hangings. Apparently, he wasn't going to get any more rest, so why bother trying? Draco shrugged as he uncapped the whiskey bottle and took a long pull that ended with a coughing fit. Once the coughing had passed, he took another swig and coughed again. "Did you hear me?" Blaise continued.

Draco coughed once more, spewing whiskey on his arms and down his front. "I heard," he rasped out, and took yet another swallow. This time he had to sit down, for his legs did not have any hope of supporting him. Blaise sneered inside; Draco Malfoy could not take a drink at all. Still, the young Death Eater hopeful kept going at the bottle. Blaise had to hand it to him; Malfoy did not give up.

"Then why didn't you answer?" Blaise prodded when it was obvious that Draco wasn't going to continue. "It's only polite, you know."

Draco managed to roll his eyes at this response, although the room was already spinning. A maniacal grin came across his face, quickly replaced by a look of puzzled anger at Blaise's questioning. "Bugger off, Zabini. Can't you see I'm trying to get drunk here?" Although he had only taken a little out of the bottle, his words were slurred and he kept nodding his head back and forth. He swung the bottle around so that it splashed all over his hands.

"Trying would be the operative word here." Trusting Draco's drunk state, Blaise quickly reached over and wrenched the bottle from the other boy's grip. "What confuses me is why you're _trying_ to get drunk at eight o'clock in the morning. Most people give it a few more hours before getting drunk."

"Hey!" Draco had only just realized that Blaise was holding his bottle. "Give that back!" He made a grab for it, but fumbled and ended up flat on the floor. For a long time, he lay there, dazed. Slowly, with the sluggish carefulness a drunk person awards the most simple of tasks, he hauled himself to his feet and faced Blaise. His normally impeccable posture was slumped forward and his eyes were glazed and tired, punctuated by harsh bruises.

"What was so horrible that makes you want to drink at eight o'clock in the morning?" Blaise questioned, keeping the bottle out of reach of Draco's drunk paws. "I didn't even know you had whiskey on you." He took a careful sniff of the bottle and nodded; the bottle was definitely filled with whiskey. 

An aggravated sigh came from Draco as he gave up trying to retrieve the bottle and crashed noisily onto the edge of his bed. He kicked his trunk with one disheartened foot. "It's not whiskey," he said in a muffled voice. He bent his head and stared hard at his toes. "It's Anti-Sobering Potion that I brewed last month. And it's not a something, either. It's a someone." His potion-covered hands captivated him now.

Blaise ignored the last bit as he stared hard between the sixteen-year-old and the bottle. So that was why four swallows awarded him the affect of several shots. Blaise shook his head, thoroughly disgusted that Draco would have Anti-Sobering Potion available in his trunk at all times. It was almost pathetic. Couldn't the Malfoy heir do anything right? He certainly couldn't get smashed properly. He had to do it quickly and easily…Blaise stopped abruptly and looked down at the bottle in his hand. This type of thing could have some very useful possibilities, especially if it retained the appearance of whiskey. He turned to ask Draco if he could borrow the recipe, but Draco had already curled up on the edge of his bed and fallen asleep.

For once the considerate friend, Blaise tugged on Draco to pull him out of such an uncomfortable position and left him to sleep, the first sleep the young Malfoy had achieved in a long time.

*

__

It was a long walk, but eventually he came at a crossroad.

Draco blinked in the hazy fog that surrounded him, trying his hardest to view a sign not far off. He was vaguely aware that he was standing right in the center where two roads met. He saw three wooden flats slatted to a post, each pointing at a direction he could travel. But the words were too blurry, too far away for his limited vision to read. Draco tried to walk nearer to read it, but with every step he took, the sign grew farther away. After about five steps, Draco realized the fruitlessness of his mission.

Great, so he couldn't know which way he was supposed to go. Where was he trying to go, anyway? Draco glanced left, then right, and finally forward, but the roads all looked the same. Straight roads of gray dust and grayer stones. He turned to look at the way he had come, but a heavy iron door appeared in the middle of that road with an obvious message. There was no going back that way.

That left him with three equally sightless options. Draco ran a hand through his hair and glanced about again, but there was no way to discern any difference between any of the roads. Finally, he decided to turn left, for he was left-handed anyway. He had not walked far down the nondescript dirt road, ensconced all around by forbidding fields of black, when he saw a stooped figure at the side of the road. Immediately, he quickened his pace, worried that whoever it was might be injured or sick.

After about four steps, however, he jolted to a stop and ran a hand down the front of his T-shirt. At least, it had been his T-shirt before, but now it felt heavy and oppressing. Now he glanced down to see robes of obsidian black flowing about. A cursory brush of fingers across his face told him more than he needed to know. Somehow, on this path, he had donned a black mask.

He had become a Death Eater.

Somehow, Draco's dream mind didn't seem to think that this was such a problem. After all, if the robes fit…Draco's conscience shook its head in disgust as he continued down the path. The very patter of his footfalls felt more familiar than any broomstick ever could. Something in the back of his mind was nagging him, telling him that this road was familiar, it was the path that he was meant to take. Caught between his warring conscience and the familiarity of it all, Draco pushed on.

As he neared the figure, trying to ignore the battle inside, shadows leapt about, mad flickering flames of darkness touching everything. Still, Draco did not flinch or back away. He was going to find out what was down this path, since he could not turn back. Nobody could accuse Draco Malfoy of ever being afraid.

The figure was stooped almost in half when Draco reached it. No voice could be found in his throat to call out. Finally, frustrated at his mute state, Draco pushed a hand against the shoulder of the shadowed person. Slowly, the figure straightened and white hands lifted the hood of the robe to reveal…

Draco recoiled away from the face that peered out at him, glaring. It couldn't be! It just wasn't possible!

But there it was, his face plastered to this phantom menace alongside a dusty road that felt too familiar. 

Here, he knew, stood his destiny, in this scowling, evil boy. As he stared, the impact hit him like a strong punch to the stomach. He nearly moved to the side of the road and retched. He knew it and there was no fighting it.

Here was the path he was doomed to take.

*

__

Why am I doing this? 

It was a question that she knew the answer to perfectly well, but as the answer unnerved her even more than the question did, it was an answer she did not want to admit. She had discovered a corrupt truth, one she was sure that no other human knew, with the exception of those responsible, and now it was time to take that truth to the man who could do something about it. She would rather eat pickled giant's toes, but Draco Malfoy had once said that Professor Snape was his favorite professor. And Severus Snape would be able to deal with this problem much better than Ginny would.

So Ginny made her very reluctant way down to the dungeons of Hogwarts Castle. She always felt an alarming sense of dread in the very footsteps that walking this path required; Professor Snape, while not very intimidating as a person, had the power to pass or to fail her and to ruin her chances at Head Girl. The thought was terrifying enough to make Ginny sweat and nearly cry to work harder in his class. She had pulled off each potion with better results than any of the Slytherins had, so she was assured at least a little bit of respect. She and Professor Snape had formed a sort of "I'll leave you alone if you do your work correctly" deal.

Still, she did not think that the deal would hold up if she were to just show up in his office on the last day of the school year.

Calling on her stock of Gryffindor nerve, Ginny knocked on the classroom door and, without waiting for an answer, pushed inside. The Potions classroom looked exactly like it had every time she came to sit in one of those horribly foul desks and brew some equally foul potion. Three rigid rows of desks and benches, with proper spaces to put a class two pewter cauldron up to boil, one teacher's desk looming over all other desks, and the bottled potions ingredients gleaming on the walls. Many a Gryffindor nightmare had occurred here in this very room. Resolutely, Ginny pushed past this classroom and knocked sharply on the closed office door.

For a long moment, there was silence within. Then, slowly, Snape's lurching footsteps scratched against the stone floor and the door was flung open to give Ginny a full view of a livid Potions Master. He stared at her in open shock, before: "Are you lost?"

Ginny closed her eyes for a brief moment, wishing she were anywhere but standing outside the Potions Master's office. "No. Believe it or not, I need to talk to you." Her voice sounded small, and she nearly cursed inside. This was just one fellow who spent too much time in the dungeons, what reason did she have to be afraid? "Um, can I sit down or something?"

Snape grudgingly moved aside, his eyes never leaving the Gryffindor. "Is this some sort of game?" he asked as Ginny gratefully collapsed into the chair behind his desk. "Did Potter or one of his little minions put you up to this?"

Ginny frowned at him. "Why would Harry do that? My business here has nothing to do with anything a Gryffindor is normally concerned with. Harry would actually prevent me from coming here today." She let her eyes drift over Snape's office, a place she had never actually seen, and was heartily surprised to find that Snape was a bit disorganized. Parchment was stacked ten to twelve deep on every available surface, and he had three cauldrons just sitting around. Ginny saw that he had been in the middle of composing a letter when she had interrupted him.

"And what exactly is your business, Miss Weasley?" Snape interrupted her search of his classroom.

Ginny swallowed and tried to sit up straighter under the Potion Master's pointed gaze. "Um, well, sir, you may or may not be aware of my recent friendship with Draco Malfoy." The professor looked surprised, but nodded. Ginny plowed on, feeling very much like somebody about to dive in over her head. "He mentioned you being his favorite professor, but I don't know if he comes to talk to you or whatever and I felt—"

"Miss Weasley, is there a point to this?" Snape moved across the room and sat behind his desk, sweeping the letter out of the way so that he could fold his hands expectantly.

"Oh. Oh, right." Ginny played with her thumb, a nervous habit. "Well, since he's mentioned you as a favorite professor, I figured you might be able to help him. He's more fond of you than he is of Dumbledore, who I would naturally go to." She was babbling, she knew, but who could help but babble when faced with the school's strictest professor?

Snape's expression was unreadable. "I'm touched. Do continue."

"Well, um, sir, to put it frankly, I'm worried about him." Scowling at Snape's dubious expression, she continued. "Really, sir. I made a discovery I probably wasn't supposed to this morning."

"And what discovery is that, Miss Weasley?"

Ginny tried very hard to quit scowling at the infuriating Potions Master. He made her feel like a very small child that needed to be led by the hand. Snape had always had a way of making her feel like that, however. Ginny's look was nearly pure loathing as she said, "He's been whipped."

The diamond-hard black eyes did not show any surprise, or any change at all as they regarded the youngest Weasley. Ginny nearly scowled at this alone; emotions were easy to work with, but this man might as well have been a stone wall. For all she knew, he could be rejoicing inside that his favorite student was cruelly beaten on summer break. Ginny swallowed, trying to squash this possibility from her mind. She had seen Severus Snape at meetings for the Order of Phoenix, when she and Ron had been smuggled in last summer break. She doubted that a member of the Order could be so cruel.

Unless Professor Snape was a spy.

Before Ginny's thoughts could become too frantic, the Potions Master leaned back in his desk chair and sighed, his shoulders slumping forward. "It is done," Ginny thought she heard him mutter. "Miss Weasley, you might think me insane for voicing this question, and I quite possibly am, but did you notice a pattern in the whip-marks you glimpsed?"

Floored, Ginny could do nothing but gape openly at him. "Your top student's been whipped, and you're sitting here, calm as anything, asking me if I had the chance to play connect-the-dots with his scars before he ran off?" As Ginny was known for her mouth and its tendencies to run away with itself, she did not clap her hands over the offending object and blush. Instead, she fixed the Potions Professor with her most furious look. "I don't know what smoke you breathed this morning and I'm not sure how it's affecting your brain, but isn't there something that you can _do_?"

"Miss Weasley, that is quite enough." Professor Snape looked about as welcoming as a spike-studded stone wall as he regarded the young Gryffindor with an expression kin to loathing. "The laws about my job dictate that I can do nothing because Mr. Malfoy is close to his coming-of-age. I cannot risk my job and my position for this." When Ginny opened her mouth to protest quite vehemently, he held up a hand. "I can assure you that no harm will befall Mr. Malfoy this summer. You, perhaps, have had a shot sometime in your childhood?"

Ginny snapped her mouth shut and answered, "Of course," without thinking about it. She had no idea where the professor was going with this, but it was probably a wiser idea to save her arguments for later.

"And shots are painful, yes, but vital to our health." Eyes dark, Ginny nodded slowly. "Yes, I'm positive you are aware of the paradox. Pain that spares pain. It's something we as humans face, and it's something that's doled out unequally. Mr. Malfoy, it seems, has been given quite the large share of protective pain."

Ginny had a quick mind, something that had aided her considerably during long class periods. Right now she frowned as the cogs whirred to life, drawing the analogy that Snape had used into place. "Pardon my confusion, sir," she said, "but what I'm getting out of this is that you're saying that Draco's been whipped…to protect him. I'm not sure that what you're suggesting is possible."

Well, it was certainly the first time a Gryffindor had managed to make the cranky Potions Master look impressed. Professor Snape nodded sagely at the youngest Weasley. "It's entirely possible. The matter of why he has been whipped is kept from Mr. Malfoy himself, but you will both know the purpose of the scars before the summer's out, I expect."

It was all too much; her head was starting to hurt from all of the warring possibilities jammed beneath her skull. She closed her eyes, but the confusion did not fade. Finally, she opened her eyes and looked the Potions Professor straight in the eye. "You're positive that he won't be abused this summer?"

Snape's expression turned to bitterness so quickly that Ginny could have sworn the impressed look had never existed. "The Dark Lord will make sure of that himself."

Despite her fear of Voldemort, Ginny knew that when he wanted something so strange done, it would be done. Silently, she nodded. Another paradox added to the list, most of which involved Draco and Harry. Before Ginny could review the list, she burst out, "But I'm still worried about him." Before Snape could stop her, she continued on, "I know he won't be touched this summer, but I'm worried about him right now. He's not in the most stable of conditions with all the pressure that's been put on him. And when I saw the scars, he closed up completely. If he doesn't know their purpose, he'll think the worst and surely hurt himself-"

"Where is Mr. Malfoy right now?" Professor Snape interrupted.

Ginny closed her mouth and thought hard. "I haven't seen him since before breakfast." She had heard some interesting things about him all day, though. "I was listening in on some of the conversations at lunch today and one of the Slytherins was telling Crabbe and Goyle that Draco had taken some sort of Potion—you're the professor, I thought maybe you could help—"

A frantic fifteen-year-old on one's hand was the last thing any sensible professor would want. Quickly, Professor Snape lifted his hands and glanced about, quite unsure of what to do. "Calm down, calm down." He cast a frantic look about, but the walls did not offer any support. Once he saw that Ginny's breathing was back to normal, he pressed, "Did this young man mention the potion at all?"

Ginny's brow wrinkled as she worked hard to recall the conversation. "He said something about whiskey or something like that." The three had been too far away for Ginny to eavesdrop properly, and moving closer would have meant sitting with Harry and Ron. As the two ranked pretty high on the list of people she did not like at the moment, she had stayed in her seat.

There could only be one potion that could be confused for whiskey. The Potion Master's shoulders tensed as he looked at Ginny, renewed worry in his eyes. "All right then. I'll send somebody in with an antidote for Mr. Malfoy. You don't need to worry about anything, but be sure to talk to Mr. Malfoy on the train tomorrow. I daresay you two will have a lot to talk about."

And with that said, his demeanor changed completely. "Now, please remove yourself from my office before I take points from Gryffindor for being late to the Leaving Feast."

Ginny gave a small squeak and let herself out, scurrying past the horridly clean classroom and through the dank tunnels leading out of the dungeons. She had escaped an encounter with Snape, and was quite possibly the only Gryffindor to ever willingly visit Professor Snape in his office. This was going on the list of things she had accomplished that none of her other brothers could, right below the "acquired a sense of wit and tactfulness."

*

So deeply locked into a potion-induced sleep was Draco that he did not hear the soft patters of footsteps that did not belong there on the floor to the 6th year Slytherin Boys' Dormitory. He did not hear the sounds of the curtains being pulled back, or of the muttered words to end the Silencing Spell on his curtains that was always there. It was not until icy hands gripped his freezing shoulder that Draco noticed anything more than the demented nightmares that he had been trapped into.

"Malfoy," a voice said close to his ear. The cold hand worked his shoulder, shaking the blond Slytherin from any hopes of sleep. Still, Draco scrunched his eyes shut, trying to avoid the world of the awake for a few more moments. All he wanted to do was sleep-why couldn't they leave him alone for once? And why was everything shaking?

"Go 'way," he mumbled when it was apparent that the shaking was not going to stop. _Why_ was he shaking? There weren't earthquakes at Hogwarts…

"Oh, good, you're awake." The voice was deep, but not the deep of the very stupid or very mean. This was the sort of voice meant for a psychiatrist or a doctor. "You need to stay awake now." 

__

Not if I can help it, some rebellious part of Draco's mind countered. _I've earned my beauty rest-now go away!_

The person leaning over him either could not read minds or was just too stubborn for his or her own good. Draco, eyes glued shut, scowled at whoever it was and grumbled. "Fine, then. I'm awake." Slowly, he opened one eye.

Alarms went off in every corner of his brain as fire burned through his eye and a short scream of agony erupted from his mouth. The worst migraine he had ever had settled firmly behind his eyes, forcing him to curl up and clutch his skull, whimpering like a small child.

"How the mighty have fallen," the voice continued, and Draco did not miss the bitter irony. "You forget, genius, you took Anti-Sobering Potion." The hand was now pushing up on his shoulder, trying to force him back against the backboard. With a hot iron poked right into the center of his brain, Draco could do nothing but go along. His hands covered his eyes, blocking in the smoldering afterimages. "C'mon, drink up." The hand grabbed his and a cold goblet stem was pressed into Draco's palm; automatically, he tightened his fingers about the goblet. Whoever it was that had decided to interrupt his rightfully earned sleep helped him guide the goblet to his mouth—his hand couldn't hold still, it seemed—but liquid still splashed down his front.

The strange liquid tasted of cinnamon and lemons, of all things, and had a foul aftertaste. However, Draco did not care-two sips of the horrible drink and the pain in his head had cleared away, taking the fog with it. Hesitantly, he opened one eye, but was not rewarded with spasms of pain. "Who're you?"

Had his mind not been trapped in a vortex of agony, Draco would have assumed that the person helping was just some Slytherin who had decided to be nice or wanted something from him. The young man that leaned over him now, dressed immaculately in his formal school robes, was definitely not Slytherin. Draco could not see a badge anywhere on the person's form, so he or she must have sneaked into the Slytherin Dungeon. He looked vaguely familiar, with dark hair and equally dark eyes, but Draco could not place his face with a name. The young man cleared all troubles away by sticking out his hand and saying, "Colin Creevey. Fifth year Gryffindor. I'm a Phoenix member, like you, so Professor Dumbledore sent me down here to wake you for the Leaving Feast. He would have sent a Slytherin, but you're the only Slytherin Phoenix member.

"Oh, yes, and congratulations. Slytherin's won the House Cup for the first time since I've been here. All up to your captaining of the team, I must say—"

"You talk too much," Draco interrupted. He blinked repeatedly, trying to get a grip on the fact that he was in his bed in the Slytherin Dungeon, listening to some Gryffindor chatter away, and the clock read nine hours later than he had picked up the bottle of potion. "I've been asleep all day?"

"That's what Ginny said. She told Professor Snape to send somebody to help you, and Professor Dumbledore picked me." Colin's mouth shut with a contrite snap and he straightened, automatically brushing his robes off. "_Anyway_, the Leaving Feast begins in ten minutes, and they're all expecting you there, as you are the Slytherin Champion, it seems. Might want to hurry." He turned to leave and then decided against it. "You also might want to do something about your hair."

As the door shut behind the talkative Gryffindor, Draco reached up and felt the pelt of hair that had slowly been growing longer as the year progressed. He winced as he felt clumps of it sticking out at funny angles. He had fallen asleep sopping wet, dried only the slightest from his stormy trip through the dungeons. His clothing was still a bit damp in the back, but definitely rumpled. His nightmares had obviously been very bad, although he could only remember a crossroads…and a dark figure...

If Creepy, which was what Draco had started calling Colin Creevey in his mind, was correct, he didn't have much time to get ready. Being at odds with one's house was never a good thing, and Draco had been skirting on that option all year long. He did not need to show up late to the Leaving Feast. This would only serve to increase animosity and make things more difficult for the summer.

And, heaven knew, Draco didn't need to make this summer more difficult than it already was.

He arrived in the last trickle of students, his hair deceptively wet (hit with a styling charm) and his robes neatly pressed and as immaculate as Creepy's had been. He wore his school cape, which was only worn at formal events like the Leaving Feast. He had cast a deceptive charm on the cape, which would hide the insistent shaking from the other students. The only thing he would have to worry about would be picking up his goblet; if another Slytherin saw his hand shaking, he was not sure what would happen. He was not even sure how many people Zabini had told about his crazed drinking spell that morning.

The potion hadn't worked. Draco had brewed it some weeks before to help him forget anything horrible that could possibly attack him. It was a cowardly thing to do, but the potion had given him some sort of inner strength, a secret he could keep like one keeps a tryst to oneself. Enough of an Anti-Sobering Potion, drunk quickly enough, could help erase very fresh memories, it was said. Draco did not want to remember the shock, the horror, that had been on Ginny Weasley's face as she looked at his most-kept secret. She would think him a case to be pitied now! Why, oh why, hadn't he remembered to renew the concealing spell?

Because Ginny was the kind of person you could lose yourself to, that was why.

Draco folded his hands inside the cape, smiling haltingly at the happy conversation around him. Most of the Slytherins were using this opportunity to gloat about how much better they were than the other houses. Gryffindor and Ravenclaw were nearly tied for second place, it said. After all, Gryffindor had a very new Quidditch team, and Ravenclaw had trained to nearly top notch with Cho Chang as their captain. Plus the first year Ravenclaws were said to be incredibly intelligent, and had earned scores of points. Draco had earned his fair share as a student, but it was his Quidditch team that had pulled off the win.

The Quidditch team was sitting together, clustered around the table and toasting each other. Trying as hard as he could, Draco toasted with the rest of them, tapping his goblet against the rest of the goblets. Malcolm Baddock, of all people, sat across from him, never meeting his eyes. Draco strongly suspected that Professor Snape had had a few words with the young Keeper. Beside Draco, Tiger Jawkins was in high spirits, toasting to the craziest things and flirting merrily with Jameson Flint, who looked befuddled by this attention. Renton Marx clapped him on the shoulder and laughed. Vincent Crabbe and Millicent Bulstrode were chuckling quietly at some joke; Draco wondered how long it would take the two of them to get together. A Beater and a Chaser, who would have thought?

"Hear, hear!" Tiger called to the Slytherin table. "Took us…how long, Dray?" she asked Draco, a look of confusion on her pointed face.

"Six years," Draco whispered.

"It took us six years to win again, but isn't victory sweet?" she called now to the table. She was met with a chorus of "Hear, hear!" and "Oh, yeah!" "And doesn't it feel good to finally let everybody know we're _better than them_?"

Draco had to hand Tiger one thing: she knew how to work a crowd up. He snickered quietly at his empty plate as the other tables decided to protest and the Slytherins decided to cause a ruckus of cheers. One glance at the Gryffindor table, where he had studiously avoided looking so far, told him that the Gryffindors were none too happy with the Slytherin victory. They didn't own the cup, after all. It was Slytherin's turn.

"Speech!" Blaise Zabini called down the table. "Malfoy, give a speech!" He looked about him for support and waved his hands. "C'mon, Slytherin deserves a speech from the captain!"

It happened quickly. Tiger and Crabbe, who happened to be on Draco's other side, hauled a protesting Draco to his feet and forced him to stay upright. Malcolm Baddock shoved a glass of pumpkin juice into his hand, and Tiger pushed his arm up so that the whole Hall could see his shaking hand. _Oh, well, at least they'll just think it's nerves,_ some distant part of his mind commented as Draco looked, shocked, from one classmate to another. _Just pour on the Malfoy charm_.

__

Clear your throat. That was the way Lucius always started his impromptu speeches and so, with a leaden gullet, Draco did the same. _Now, rub it in and get the Slytherins worked up. Take it from there._ The innate Malfoy manners were slowly leaking in, prompting Draco to wheel about and wave his goblet at the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. "We all know how the saying goes, don't we?" he asked his classmates in a jeer. "We Slytherins always hear the other houses say, 'Don't drop to the level of a Slytherin,' don't we?" This was met with a mild roar of agreement from his fellow Slytherins. "Well, too bad. I'm already there." Somebody coughed, probably hiding a snicker. "So I have a few things to say.

"First, to the Hufflepuffs…you fought well…but not well enough. Sorry." A few of the Hufflepuffs in his year looked ready to murder him, but Draco swallowed and continued. "And you Ravenclaws…Well, you had a strong Quidditch team, too, but…it looks like the best team won after all." Now he was positive he had just earned top student on the hate lists of two houses. Why not try for a third while he was at it? When he wasn't their champion, Draco was pretty loathed in the Slytherin house.

On to the Gryffindors. "And you Gryffindors? Well, well, well." Despite himself, Draco let out a small chuckle as he met the eyes of an enraged Ron Weasley and Harry Potter. "I'm sorry, but I fear I must regress to my childhood days for this part. All I have to say to you is 'Nyah-nyah-nyah!'"

Now the laughter was barely held back; for reasons he was not sure about, he wanted to do nothing more than fall to the floor laughing right now. As it was, most of the other Slytherins were howling with laughter. He even caught a slight smile on the lips of Professor Snape, although the rest of the teachers looked less than thrilled. They had let the Weasley twins do this last year; it was Draco's turn, and they could do nothing to stop it.

"What can I say more than, we came, we played, we beat you all?" Now Draco thrust the goblet high, where it was joined by many other Slytherin goblets. "To Slytherin! The house that houses the best!" He looked frantically to his Quidditch team to cover his pathetic speech. Quickly, Tiger and Renton leapt to the rescue. They started banging fists on the table and chanting "Slytherin!" as Draco sat down.

Before the Slytherins could get too far and enrage too many more people, Professor Dumbledore clapped his hands and the chanting stopped. The Hall grew quiet as the Headmaster stood up and swept his gaze around the hallway. "Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. Although, in the future, you will wish to hold your comments to the other houses back, yes?"

"What can I say?" Draco called back before he could think about it. "I'm a Slytherin!" His table cheered.

If Dumbledore found this amusing, he gave no sign. "I do believe," he told the assembled students, "that it is time to announce the house points received this year. Hufflepuff stands at an impressive 374 points this year!" There was a smattering of applause, although Draco noticed a lot of angry looks directed at him. "Ravenclaw, none too shabby. You scored 392 points this year! And just ahead of you with 393 points is Gryffindor!" He gave the slightest pause to let students clap and announced, "And Slytherin has won the House Cup this year with 423 points!"

The students around Draco exploded in a raucous cheer, swinging goblets around and splashing pumpkin juice about. For once, Draco joined in.

It was okay to be accepted.

Tonight, at least.

*

Draco's trunk lay open in front of him as he inspected the contents. He had checked and double-checked it over, to make sure that it contained his school uniforms, his summer assignments, his decks of cards (to be burned), the Divination tools that Pansy Parkinson had given him, his Quidditch gear, his Cauldron, his specialized set of potions tools, the renewed bottle of Anti-Sobering Potion, his spare wand (bought on a secret trip to Ollivander's last summer), and his strengthening potion. The Soul Book lay open on his bed, but Draco had not found the courage to look into it yet. He had discovered in a very short time that Soul Book actually showed him what he needed to see—he had seen pictures of beautiful foreign places to placate him, had read a comical story about a prince and a frog, and had read about many potions that might be useful.

He feared what the Soul Book might say tonight.

Most of his roommates were down in the Common Room, sharing glasses of firewhiskey and celebrating Slytherin's capture of the House Cup. Draco had paid his visit to the festivities, taking deceptive sips of his firewhiskey glass (the firewhiskey had been dumped on a plant when nobody was looking), and had been the life of the party for thirty minutes. He had been kept so busy since the Leaving Feast, partying, packing, and now checking his work. But the nagging feeling that somebody knew about him and his truth was left open would not leave him alone.

Draco closed the trunk with a loud whapping noise.

He felt it then, the undeniable pull of the Soul Book. Even after three days with the book, Draco could recognize when it was drawing him to itself. He also knew that there was no way he could ignore the pull, either, so he reluctantly trooped over to the bed and scooped the book up. Sticking his tongue out slightly, he thumbed through the pages and leapt back as though the book had shocked him.

Staring up at him from the page was a freshly written page in the diary of Ginny Weasley.

"What the—" The book had never showed him something like this before, but then he had only had it for three days.

'_Dear Journal',_ the page read in a short, scrawled sort of writing_, 'I'm not really sure if I should put this down in words, but I may need it later, so I will. Besides, I'll put a deceptive spell on it or something so that nobody can read it. Nobody will ever see this.'_

"Fat chance of that happening," Draco muttered aloud as he sat down on the edge of the bed to read. Had he been a Hufflepuff or a Gryffindor, he would have felt guilty, but curiosity had trapped him.

__

'I haven't really written much about Draco, my newest friend here. There's not really much to write because he's pretty quiet, and you know how exams get. He's completely different from what everybody says he is. Ron swears up and down that he's cruel and mean, but I feel like Draco understands me more than any of the Trio ever could. He just has this knowing _look, like whatever you say is locked in a safe with him. Everybody says to be careful because he's Voldemort's top follower and all that, but I don't believe any of it. I know what I'm doing here, really.'_

Draco blinked. She had written 'Voldemort,' something most people shook at the thought of doing. The quill hadn't even quavered over the word-she wrote it like it was the word "the." Completely intrigued now, he read on.

__

'I knew there was something different about him than the rest of the Slytherins, but I never thought it was something that serious. It's horrible, journal. I saw them there-scars from a whip. Some cruel—' And here Ginny used a word Narcissa would have considered unladylike, _'—actually raised a whip to him and beat him! How can people be like that?_

'There's no doubt to who did it, either. Lucius Malfoy's perfectly capable of slipping me a diary that makes me nearly kill my older brother's best friend and my best friend. Why should I think he would be above beating his only son? It disgusts me!!! People like that foul Malfoy run the world while good, kind people like Draco and Daddy get pushed down. It makes my blood boil!! Lucius Malfoy had better hope that he doesn't see me any time soon because I will not hesitate to do something really mean right there on the spot. I'm so worked up right now that I don't even know what I'll do, but it'll be bad_. It's amazing that Draco's even related to the foul creature. Well, they _do_ look impossibly alike, but…_

'Draco's been avoiding me all day, too. He practically ran away with his Slytherin pals after the Feast. After that horrible speech….honestly, 'nyah-nyah-nyah?' I haven't said that in years.' Draco grinned at this, despite the heaviness of her early words. _'Ooh, Ron and Harry are ticked. Hermione had to practically haul Ron back into his seat before he could rip Draco's throat out right then and there! Ron definitely has the Weasley temper, all right. He gets it from Mum, I think. Only Percy's got a temper that bad, and that's only when he's terribly provoked!_

'I hope I can talk to Draco on the train tomorrow and tell him that I don't think anything's wrong with him. He doesn't have to tell me anything, either. I just don't want him to close me off because I found something out that he's been keeping secret. If I don't talk to him on the train, I'll owl him. He can't avoid me forever, you know. We are_ going to the same summer academy, even if he doesn't know it yet!_

'It's getting late, and I have to get up early to help Ron pack. My brother really needs a girlfriend who can do this for him. I'm not his keeper, for crying out loud! Good night. Ginny.'

As soon as Draco had read the last word, the diary entry faded from view and was replaced with a blank page that smelled vaguely of cherries, Ginny's scent. Draco shook his head and closed the book. Why had it shown him a diary entry? Weren't those things supposed to be private? Draco had never had a sister or a diary, so he knew very little about diary maintenance. But he was pretty sure that he was not supposed to read other people's diary entries.

Draco's chagrin faded as he carefully placed the Soul Book into his trunk. He had not read much into the life of Ginny Weasley, but he had read enough to know that the incident with the Chamber of Secrets was one she was never going to forgive herself for. Lucius Malfoy had hurt her in much the same way he had hurt Draco; they had both been burned by a whip, physically real or not. Ginny bore scars as real as Draco's, although hers were emotional scars.

Why had they been pulled together like this? It was not quite animal magnetism, but it was magnetism nonetheless. There was the smallest of attraction; Draco would admit easily that Ginny was a very pretty young woman, not an exotic, but a "girl-next-door" type of pretty. And he knew that she definitely was attracted to him. But there was a deeper connection than that, a rather strange connection that afforded him peace, of all things. He could talk to his Quidditch team for hours about plays and other things, but he would still gain more satisfaction from a moment of silence walking beside Ginny in the corridors. It was an emotional bond, and not quite one he was sure he understood.

Draco rubbed his eyes and lay down on his bed, still clothed in his school uniform. The cape spread about his body, a dark halo encompassing his slim form. The scabs on his hands had been given three days without letters from his father to heal. He would have scars there, to remind him of the destruction he could cause to his own body. Like the scars on his back would always be there, constant reminders of the destruction caused by his father. For a long time, Draco stared up at the canopy above his bed.

His father. The man he would have to face tomorrow. The man who had not touched his son for the first fifteen years. The man who had made Draco's last year a living nightmare. The man who looked like him. His father.

Draco closed his eyes, willing the memories of his plaguing dreams away. The Soul Book bound to him would provide strength, his strange bond with Ginny would lift him, and his promise to the Order of Phoenix would enforce that strength. "What binds you now may set you free," Draco whispered to himself, quoting some fragment of a memory. Carefully, as though afraid of the candlelight, he opened his eyes. His bonds would save him from his father.

But nothing could save him from Lord Voldemort.

Of that and nothing else he was sure.


	4. Pushing For Faith

A/N: This chapter is incredibly strange, just to warn you. It's leading on to something much more important, but I had to cut it off where I did. Several things happen in this chapter vital to the plot, but I keep wondering why I even bothered writing this chapter. It took me several months, though, so here you go! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: What with all the names flying about, I'm not really sure who owns what anymore. The characters you don't recognize are probably original, and if you want to use them, go ahead, but I'd appreciate it if you asked first. Otherwise, it's not mine, and no money is being made.

__

I'm going in,

One, two three and four

Like a Kamikaze

Like Geronimo

A leap of faith

And I finally feel alive

Kamikaze, Five Iron Frenzy

****

Pushing for Faith

Chapter Four

_Falling._

With a thump that rattled the dishes and pretty china stacked up high all about, Ginny landed on her own dining room table, thoroughly winded. How she had fallen through the kitchen ceiling, and why, had yet to be answered in her own mind, but there she was. Slowly, she lifted herself up onto her hands and knees, noticing that she was in her school uniform as she did so. So she was somehow at home—in her school uniform—on the table. She groaned silently as she looked about.

She was not alone at the table, either. Assembled around the table was her family, not perplexed in the least to see her crouched there among the breakfast dishes. In fact, Molly even looked up at her daughter and asked, "Ginny, would you mind sitting in your regular seat? It's rude to have your feet on the table."

"What—oh, yes." Feeling like an errant child, Ginny picked her way through the dishes full of kippers and eggs and bacon, crawling over steaming mugs of coffee to reach her seat. All of the Weasley children had seats to keep them from bickering over who sat where. Ginny's seat was in between Ron's seat and Charlie's seat, nearer her mother than her father. Charlie was sitting on her left, but Ron was not in his seat at all. Looking across the blank expanse, she could see Percy, right next to their father.

It was then that she got her first proper look at the family members placed around the worn table. Molly looked unchanged since the last time Ginny had seen her, vibrant in her old black robes. Her frizzy hair was pulled back into a bun, and she was browsing through some magazine or other, listening to the conversation Bill and Percy were having with one ear. "Bill!" Ginny cried suddenly, thoroughly surprised and pleased to see her oldest—and favorite—brother. "When did you get here?"

"What do you mean, Ginny?" Bill looked up and Ginny drew in a sharp breath, realizing for the first time that he had changed quite a bit. He had lost a considerable amount of weight, so that his face seemed a lot sharper. The fang earring that she had always adored was gone; his hair was chopped short. His clothing, which used to be so cool_, was now simple robes of black not unlike Arthur's. There was a scar above his left eyebrow that Ginny did not remember, and a look of confusion on his face that Ginny was not used to. Bill was supposed to know _everything_. "I've been here the whole time, Gin."_

"Oh—oh, right." Ginny nodded and shifted her gaze to Percy, to see how much he had changed. Maybe all of her brothers had taken the time to grow up while she and Ron were at Hogwarts. And where was Ron, anyway?

Percy had not changed as much as Bill had, but there were differences. He looked a lot less uptight, for one. Tired lines had carved themselves into his youthful face, marring the laughter lines that Ginny knew had always been there. Percy may have seemed like a stuck-up prig at times, but Ginny had always liked him. His robes were a bit nicer than Bill's or Molly's, but a little more worn. The robes were nothing like the polo shirts and jeans that the twins were sporting. They still looked identical, but Ginny could see that time had finally set in on their boyish faces. Like Bill and Percy, they had both lost weight—none of Molly's delicious cooking, perhaps? Ginny wondered.

Her family seemed to be talking about something rather avidly, but Ginny could not figure out what they were saying for the life of her. "Where's Ron?" Ginny asked, filling her plate up with eggs and sausage.

The conversation did not falter, but Percy did glance over at Ginny. His gaze lingered on Ron's seat for awhile before returning to his coffee, lost to his own world of thought. Ginny furrowed her brow at this. Why was everybody acting like Ron did not exist? And why did they all appear older?

Her questions were never answered, for it was right then that Ginny awoke on her last day of her fifth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

*

__

"Ginny! Wait up!"

Colin Creevey pushed his trunk ahead of him, moving as fast as his legs would allow with the levitating trunk in front of him and students packed all about. Even though he had grown to a height that was almost awkward, Colin was still used to being short and thin, and thus easily able to slip through crowds. Ginny turned in time to see Colin accidentally plow through a crowd of Slytherin third-years, most of which shouted obscenities after the hurrying Gryffindor. Colin was not fazed; he even tossed a devilish grin over his shoulder at them and hurried on. "Gin!" he cried, and upon reaching her, swung her around in a big bear hug. "How's my favorite surrogate sister doing?"

Ginny laughed as Colin set her down, positively grinning. Colin's recent enthusiasm was certainly very infectious; one could not help but smile whenever the eldest Creevey was around. Ginny half-suspected that he was putting it on for both her and Dennis. The younger Creevey, after all, had been looking severely depressed at having to return to a safe house for the holidays. "Would you believe that you only saw me an hour ago at breakfast, Colin?" she asked, shaking her head so that the red waves flopped all about her face.

"Yup!" Colin pushed his trunk forward again, careful not to ram into a group of teary-eyed Hufflepuffs. "Dennis and I are really excited about coming to visit you and Ron at the Burrow for the last week of the holidays. Dennis was talking about it just this morning. Speaking of Dennis…" He turned slightly, scanning the crowd for his much-shorter younger brother. "There he is! C'mon!"

Dennis, while still a photocopied version of what Colin had been two years before, was nearly as tall as his brother now, something that nobody had foreseen. He had left Hogwarts after his second year, four feet tall, eighty pounds, and with a boyish soprano. He had returned a foot taller, thirty pounds heavier, and with a deeper voice. Like Colin, his hair was starting to darken and his eyes were slowly turning the color of Honeyduke's chocolate. Unlike Colin, he had not learned the wit of silence yet.

"Hullo, Ginny!" Dennis cried, reaching down to hug her. It felt strange knowing that Dennis was two years younger than her, but still had to stoop to give her a hug. What was it with Hogwarts boys and growing so terribly tall? Ginny had not reached anywhere near the height of even her shortest brother, but she was by no means short. "I've saved us a compartment, but it's kind of near the back—where the Slytherins sit." He wrung his hands nervously about this.

"That's all right, we'll just beat the stuffing out of them!" Emma Rogers, Dennis's daredevil friend, chimed in, looking eager to do just that.

Colin sighed as his maneuvered his trunk onto the train. "As much as we dislike them at times, no beating up the Slytherins," he called over his shoulder. Emma snapped her fingers and jerked her head at Dennis and Ginny, signaling them to get on the train. It was difficult maneuvering such a large, tattered trunk (it had been Charlie's before it became hers, and it had been Molly's old trunk from school, as well), but Ginny had been doing so with and without magic for five years. She moved in and out of groups of students, saying "Excuse me, excuse me," more times than she wished to (honestly, why couldn't she have been sorted into Slytherin and be given the right-of-way to be downright rude?).

The compartment Dennis had picked was practically the last compartment—and right next to the Trio's normal compartment. Dennis, not noticing the stricken looks on the faces of Colin and Ginny, bounced up beside them and chirped, "And it's right by Harry Potter's compartment! Isn't that great?"

"Yeah…great…" Colin levitated first his, then Dennis's trunk onto the luggage rack, studiously avoiding Ginny's eyes. Ginny studied him, trying to figure out why he would be so uptight about this, but Colin still did not meet her eyes as he took the trunk from her and levitated that onto the luggage rack as well. "Den? Emma? Can you head up to the front and pick up some drinks?" He passed a sickle and four Knuts to Dennis, and the two fourth-years to be scampered off. "Sorry. His heart's in the right place, I s'pose."

Ginny's eyes widened as the older Creevey winced. "So what do you have against our wonderful Harry Potter?" she asked, drawing a green ribbon out of her wand to put her hair up for the long ride. She stuck the wand between her teeth to hold it there while she fixed her hair and sat down.

"Nothing, really." Colin paused and chewed his lip as he pocketed his wand. "Harry's a great guy, I'm sure." He looked up, slightly puzzled, when Ginny let out the softest of snorts. "Well, anyway, I just hate feeling like the insignificant pest, you know?" From somewhere, he withdrew a simple rubber ball and threw that at the wall opposite. The ball was like Colin's camera, it never seemed to leave his presence. It bounced back into his hands as though it belonged there. "That's all I ever was from the beginning. I used to think as Harry as some all-powerful—I don't know what to call it…superior being?—because he came from a place like me and he came out on top."

Thunk.

The ball hit the wall above Ginny's head and came back same as before. "It's a heartbreaking thing to realize that your idol has clay feet, you know that? That's exactly what Harry was—my idol. I _adored_ him because he was small like me, but he was so huge, he stood up to creeps like Snape and Malfoy and even Voldemort." Thunk. Thunk. "I'm sure he's a great guy, but I'm never going to be anything but the pest to him."

Now that her hair was back in a successful red plait, Ginny pulled her wand from between her teeth and rubbed it off, producing white-gold sparks. "I've been the pest my entire life, Colin. I know how you feel." The only one who hadn't considered her a pest for the longest time was Ron, but even that had changed when Hogwarts arrived for him. Feeling insignificant was something Ginny was good at, it seemed. In the family photos, she was always cooed over and pointed at because she was the only girl. People cooed over Bill because of his grades, Charlie because of his athletic ability, Percy because of his responsibility, the twins because of their mischievous pranks, and Ron because he had managed to survive so much. Ginny was merely a girl; it did not matter that she was top of her year, or that she a natural aptitude for advanced magic. And to her brothers and everybody they knew, she was nothing but a helpless pest. A chatterbox (which she wasn't anymore) and a pest.

Colin let out a world-weary sigh and shifted so that his elbows were on the tops of his knees. "Everything you do when you're young just never leaves you alone," he observed glumly. "I haven't done my Harry-worship routine since maybe halfway through third year—and that's pushing it—and Ron still treats me like I drool on the ground Harry walks on. So maybe I've said hi to the guy a few times since then, but so does everybody." He shrugged, looking more tired than Ginny had ever seen him. "And now that Dumbledore is trying to make me a spy amongst the students, this could be a real problem."

"You, a spy?" Three words could not serve to convey the astonishment evident on Ginny's face.

The smallest curl of a mischievous grin pulled at Colin's mouth. "Draco Malfoy didn't recognize me when I went into the Slytherin dungeons last night, did he?" At Ginny's open-mouthed surprise, he grinned devilishly. "Yes, Colin Creevey, Professor Dumbledore's own spy. That's Creevey…Colin Creevey." He then struck a pose, holding some sort of invisible object with one hand cupped under the other by his head. Ginny blinked, shocked and now puzzled. "Sorry," Colin apologized, reddening. "Muggle thing."

"You never struck me as the James Bond type, Creepy," a new voice joined from the door. Both Ginny and Colin jumped at this and turned to see Draco learning against the door frame. While the two in the compartment had been talking, Draco had obviously slid the door open and had watched them. How long he had been standing there, Ginny was not sure, nor did she really care. Colin, however, turned a lovely shade of maroon and clenched his fists threateningly.

"What did you hear?" the younger boy demanded, his voice tight. Draco just swiveled his head to look at Colin, eyes carefully masked. "I'm not kidding, Malfoy, what did you hear?"

Ginny's eyes were glued to Draco's clothing, which was certainly strange for Draco at least. He had surpassed his regular, neatly-pressed school robes in favor of, above all things, a pair of Muggle jeans and a black cashmere sweater. While Ginny had seen Draco in jeans once before at night, she had never seen him wear them in public. And the black sweater certainly fit him better than any of his robes did… "Draco, how much did you hear?" she asked quietly, tearing her eyes from his clothing.

Draco shrugged. "That is of little consequence. Perhaps it would intrigue you to know that I intend to give up every aspect of the Malfoy estate and change my name to Richard Thalmus, destined for the Americas this summer in hopes of gaining inner fulfillment?" There was not even a ghost of a smile on his face as he delivered this, and the seriousness in his voice belied his expressionless mask.

Ginny and Colin gaped at him.

"Okay, so maybe not." Draco moved to sit down beside Colin, offering the younger boy his hand as he did so. For a long moment, Colin stared at the proffered hand in open puzzlement before giving it a hesitant shake. "Right, then." He pulled his wand out of his pocket and waved that at his clothing, transfiguring them effortlessly into a much nicer set of slacks and a button-up black shirt. For Ginny, the fact that she was an almost sixteen-year-old girl did not seem interested in helping to stop the flush that crept to her cheeks as she stared at him. Quickly, so that he was not notice her blush, she glanced away, towards the window. "Well, I can't stay long," Draco said without noticing Ginny's discomfort, "because I promised my mates in Slytherin that we'd play poker, seeing as I won't see most of them properly until the first of September."

Despite the overly cheerful note in his voice, Draco's voice darkened considerably on the word "properly." Ginny turned her head to watch him out of the corner of her eye as he turned towards Colin. "I didn't hear much, by the way," he told Colin, in an off-hand voice that was meant to reassure the younger boy. "And I promise you can hang me by my intestines if word of what I did hear ever gets out."

"Th-thanks," Colin stammered, caught off guard by such a promise.

"You know, you look different in proper daylight. Less sinister, although that could be deemed as a case of the pot calling the kettle black." Colin had not stopped gaping, obviously unsure of what to make of the loquacious side of Draco Malfoy. "With that said, I think there was a girl up the train—Hayley? Hannah?—asking about you." Draco jerked a thumb towards the door; Colin needed no further prompting. Ginny blinked, wondering if he had left a puff of smoke from leaving the compartment so fast. "Oh, what a coincidence. He left, and now we're alone. Together. My, my, what would your brother think?"

*

Draco was not sure why he had transfigured his clothing into Muggle clothing, nor was he sure why he had waited on the threshold of the compartment for so long before making his presence known. Even Malfoys knew that it was impolite to eavesdrop, but he had been utterly fascinated at such a simple exchange. Colin Creevey and Ginny Weasley were very popularly known as friends (most of the school rumored them to be together), and Draco could see many characteristics in such a conversation that no Slytherin would dare to show between them. Only when Creevey had made a joke that he recognized as a Muggle joke, despite his upbringing, had Draco remembered himself and intervened politely.

Now that she was left alone with him, Ginny sent him a mock-scowl, which he parried with an insincerely hurt look. "You know," she suggested, leaning forward and dropping her voice as though she were sharing some great secret, "that's not funny until I imagine you with a black eye. I hear Ron was popular for giving you one of those in your first year." She winked and leaned back, indulging herself as he dramatically threw one hand over his heart and the other over his eye.

"Ginny Weasley, you wound me deeply," Draco cried in fake agony. Before the flirting match could go on, however, he sobered up and fixed Ginny with two pale moonstone eyes. "I've been under the impression that you've been meaning to talk to me?"

Perhaps she was a bit startled at the turnabout change he had just made, for she did not answer immediately. In fact, Draco had to poke her in the knee to elicit any response at all. "You've been under the impression? I wasn't sure you were—after all, who was it that practically raced out of the Great Hall last night after knocking himself up on Anti-Sobering Potion and scaring the wits out of me yesterday? Did you know that I had to go to Professor Snape, I was so worried about you?"

Draco opened his mouth to answer, but apparently the youngest Weasley wasn't done yet. "I don't know what you're trying to pull, Mr. Malfoy, but I hope that if you understand one thing, it is that we are friends. I don't know what kind of friends you've had before, but there's _no need_ to be afraid of what I think or I know about you. Things may be different in the Slytherin house. I don't care. This is _us_, this is not your cronies, this is your not your coddled playmates that you've been around since you were two. I am Ginny Weasley, and you are Draco Malfoy. Trying to kill yourself does nothing for either of us!" Finally done, her shoulders heaved once and she leaned back, fixing Draco with a look that even a Gryffindor would have trouble holding.

"Are you quite finished?" Draco finally asked, trying very hard not to appear like a fish out of the water with his mouth flapping open. He failed quite miserably, but did not seem too perturbed. Either he was by now used to being startled by Gryffindors, or he was much better than Ginny expected at masking all emotion.

"Um…" Ginny flushed at the intensity her voice had gained. "Maybe." She hadn't meant to get that worked up!

Any relations Draco had shared to a dehydrated fish disappeared as he fixed on a neutral smirk. "Well, good," he told Ginny. The smirk faded to a mere ghost on his face as he continued to stare in that unnerving way he had. "It would be a waste of both our times to tell you exactly which person in my life affixed me with the lovely scars you glimpsed yesterday." Ginny made a noise of agreement in the back of her throat. "Why he did it, I am not sure."

"Men like Lucius Malfoy don't need motivation to inflict cruelty," Ginny remarked caustically, slumping back into her seat as though Draco's admission had taken her energy.

Instead of agreeing, Draco cocked his head as though listening to some celestial voice that Ginny could not hear. "No, you're wrong about that," he told her, frowning. "Men like my father need every sort of motivation to elicit such a behavior. As to the basis of this motivation, I haven't done enough research to discover. Sometimes it can be something so simple as personal gain, but I fear there is more behind this." He held up a hand to stop any argument from Ginny. "My father is not a man to be crossed. I have told Professors Snape and Dumbledore the very same thing."

Ginny's eyes flashed lividly. "Snape and Headmaster Dumbledore know, and they have done _nothing _to put a stop to this?"

There really was such a thing as the famed Weasley temper, Draco saw now, even if he only saw the fringes of it forming. Ginny's cheeks were becoming quite flushed, and while this seemed to almost make her crackle with energy, it also made Draco appreciate the beauty of raw danger. None of the other Death Eaters looked this poised or quite formidable when angry. Draco would later begin to think of that flush as a last warning, the only sign that something was going to boil over like the sauce in the pot whenever his mother attempted to cook.

"Professor Snape in particular finds himself in a difficult position to come to in my case. Do not let that sway your judgment of him—believe me when I say that he is doing what he can." Carefully, to show that he was telling the plenary truth, he leaned forward and tucked a wayward strand of red out of Ginny's eyes, effectively drawing her gaze to his. "My father is a terrible man, Ginny, but it would not do any good to worry about me. He never touched me until last summer. I have reason to believe he will not lay a finger on me this summer."

"But he will force you to become a Death Eater," Ginny said bitterly. She reached up to her ear and took Draco's one hand in both her own. Even that simple of a touch startled him, but he hid his wince. Ginny's eyes searched him, seeing more than they should have seen. "I can tell that you do not want to."

Inwardly, Draco sighed and wished that Ginny were just like the rest of the girls in his year. This way, she would be friendly and flirtatious, never having to deal with troubles with the ones like he and Potter both carried. It really wasn't fair that Ginny be dragged into this mess because he had saved her life after he had nearly killed her. But even if she had stayed loyal to Potter, there would be difficulties to deal with. "Yes. It has always been his wish that I become a Death Eater. However, even if he never touched me, I would have no choice but to join the Lord Voldemort's ranks. I am bound by a contract, a spell performed on me on my first birthday. If I were not to take the Dark Mark on my next birthday, it would be an unimaginably painful death for me." Here was the part that he had spent contemplating all night, the part that he did not want to give. "That is why I think we should end this friendship."

Instead of an expression of dismay or anger, Ginny gave a bitter laugh that nobody so young should have known how to give. "So that's it, then?" she asked, her voice distant. "Off to join the ranks of Voldemort—" She had said it again, without any inflection of suffering or fear in her voice "—Just like another minion?"

"Ginny, it's not—"

"You know, I could understand when Harry did this to me." Again, the empty laugh that chilled him down to the very base of his spine came, and Draco hid a shiver. "Nobody ever knew—we were supposed to be this great couple, and I could tell he wanted it, but he pushed me away to join the Order of Phoenix. I joined to be with him, you know? To give him a normal life." As much as Draco did not want to hear about anything having to do with Potter, he found himself attracted to her words—almost like a moth to a flame. "By that time, he said it was too late between us. I was too much like a sister by then, but he knew absolutely nothing about me. He was doing this to protect me, he said, and that it was better this way."

"Look—"

"No!" Ginny threw up both of her hands, releasing Draco's to do so. "No! You look! You're going to say that I don't understand and that it's better for me! Well, you know what? I _understand_. People seem to think that I haven't seen evil! I'm not a little girl to be cosseted like a doll and then pushed away when danger comes." She looked at him, brown eyes wide and swirling with a mix of emotions that he could not ignore. He could see himself in those eyes, a dispassionate mask thrown against stormy barriers. It was a frightening face. "Draco—I don't know why we're even friends, but I know that something is pulling us together. Something deeper. You're one of my closest friends, and I'm not going to let you throw that away because you're afraid. You're making a mistake." Now the eyes were pleading and ripping at him.

His face did not change. "Then perhaps you should think again before you befriend a monster."

There was only enough time to register pure fury in Ginny's eyes before her hand connected solidly with his cheek, eliciting a loud SLAP! sound. Draco recoiled instinctively, his hand flying to his cheek.

"You are _not _a monster, Draco Lucifer Malfoy!" How she had come to figure out his middle name, Draco did not know; neither did he care, for his cheek burned more fiercely than anything he could dream. He stared at her in complete and expurgated shock.

He could definitely understand why books certainly described angry women as the most beautiful of them all. Ginny's eyes were great canyons of brown right now, fueled by an outraged fire. Added to that, the flush rising from her neck only made her appear younger, yet sharper at the same time. This woman was a fascinating python when she was angry. This was a cold, fascinating beauty that nonetheless entranced him.

"Well, then, I guess I cannot repeat Potter's mistake," Draco finally said, realizing that it was up to him to break the silence. "But I cannot avoid the horrors this summer will bring. Affiliating yourself with me is not wise."

"I do not back down from the side of a friend," Ginny said staunchly. She leaned back again, her shoulders slumping dispiritedly. "I wish circumstances could be different."

"As do I!" Draco agreed vehemently. He paused and scrutinized her face intently; her lower lip was quivering, which meant that she was close to breaking down. "We certainly do not ask for our destinies, but I definitely do wish our circumstances could be otherwise. Maybe…" He shook his head, stopping that thought before it could grow its poisonous little roots in his head. "There is no use dwelling on such a thing. Will you be okay attending St. Lawrence's Summer Academy by yourself? I mean, you and the others. My father has requested that I not attend."

Ginny did not voice her thoughts and instead wiped at her eyes, nodding as she did so. As though ashamed at her earlier actions, she had bowed her head and refused to meet his eye.

"You did not get any sleep last night," Draco remarked, finally noticing the bruised circles that had embedded themselves below her eyes. The flush had left her face and in its wake a severe paleness had settled in, worrying him. Feeling very awkward, Draco moved to the other bench so that he was sitting directly beside her. Even though the closeness unnerved him, he wrapped his arms around her. Ginny was probably used to this sort of attention, with six older brothers, but Draco Malfoy definitely was not. He preferred to remain as a stone pillar, touching no one and being touched by no one. When Ginny wrapped her own arms around his ribs and buried her face into his shoulder, it took his entire being not to gasp from the surprise.

Ginny, he found, was neither a loud, nor a dramatic crier. She wept into his shoulder then, the quiet sobs doing little more than shaking her shoulders in the slightest quiver. Draco let her cry herself out. How long they sat there like that, he did not know. He was only content to let the tears flow to an end. Perhaps they were tears of grief over the lost relationship with Harry, never cried about before. He knew that there probably tears for him, angry tears at the injustice served him, possibly mingled in with the sad tears that their circumstances were so difficult.

When her arms grew slack about him, he knew that she had cried herself to sleep. Working around her, he retrieved parchment and a quill from her bag, no easy task. It took considerable time to pen an adequate note and farewell with her warm presence nearly burrowed into his side, but he managed and tucked that under into her bag when he was done. Carefully, he pried himself out of her grasp and conjured up a blanket to keep any summer chills from getting to her. After placing a pillow under her head, the red hair bedraggled from being pushed into his shoulder, he switched to the other seat and merely watched her sleep. She was turned away from him, so that he couldn't see her face very well. That did not matter to him.

How could somebody he barely knew have so much conviction in his life?

Frowning to himself, Draco trailed a finger along her cheek before turning and leaving the compartment, off to play poker with the people he was supposed to call friends. 

*

A black stretch limousine, quite an expensive ride, pulled up a long, curving driveway leading to a castle. Sixteen-year-old Draco Malfoy perched alone on the edge of the seat in the back, trying very hard not to appear nervous as the car took the winding twists and turns with ease. He had not changed out of the nice black slacks and button-up black shirt he had been wearing on the train, but his robes had changed from the typical school robes to a much nicer set of specially tailored robes. He had also found time to gel his hair back. In all, he looked presentable. "Will we be there soon, Winston?" he called to the driver.

"Of course, Master Malfoy," came the cordial reply. "Our destination is almost within sight."

Contented with that answer, Draco forced himself to lean back and not to think of the reunion that would be coming shortly. His mother would undoubtedly meet him at the door to the Malfoy's expressive manor, lavishing him with motherly hugs and affection and apologizing profoundly that she had not been at the train station to pick him up. Draco would then find himself in the attentions of his father, who would find some sort of negative comment about his son's appearance before releasing him to tea with his mother. Draco would retire into bed some hours later, thoroughly exhausted from playing the charade.

And then summer would begin.

Two servants were waiting to take Draco's luggage out of the limousine's trunk when the impressive car pulled up. Draco nodded at both of them, allowing a small smile that he was sure caught them off-guard. Neither remarked on it, however, as they followed him up to the formidable entrance to the manor. Draco was rather fond of the Malfoys' manor, what with its gloomy prestige and angular appearance. It came directly from many of the horror stories Draco had been told as a child, a gloomy old palace set up on a cliff overlooking an oblivious village. Whenever lightning storms hit, they only seemed to magnify the manor's splendor in Draco's opinion.

The ugly gargoyle knocker stared Draco down as he gathered his courage and reached for the doorknob. Doomed to his fate, he opened the door and found…

Nothing.

The entrance hall was deserted of a blonde, voluptuous Narcissa eagerly awaiting the return of her only child from the grasp of his education. Draco looked around at the circular hall in bewilderment, eyes drinking in the normal sights of several of his ancestors' paintings placed about the hall. The stone floor had been polished recently, obviously in expectancy of his arrival of his homecoming, and two house elves bustled about, sweeping the room beyond. But there was no Narcissa and definitely no Lucius, as there had always been in the past.

"Winston?" Draco looked to his driver in confusion. "Where are my parents?"

"Ah, young Master Draco! I did not hear you enter!" Raymond, the Malfoys' butler, bustled into the room, smiling in his own way at the young Malfoy heir. "Your parents wish to pass on their regrets that they could not be home for such a momentous occasion…"

"Voldemort's summons again?" Draco interrupted, arching an eyebrow at the butler.

Raymond smirked quite uncharacteristically. He could get away with so much more when Master Draco was present than he could when Master Lucius was in the room. "What else, sir? Come, you are to take afternoon tea with me while the servants put away your things. Thank you, Winston, go feel free to park the car." He clapped his hands twice and the servants all scurried off to do the butler's bidding. "I have much to fill you in about, young Draco. Come, give your old butler a hug." Raymond was not much older than his father, but he loved to joke about his old age. Dutifully, Draco hugged him and received a customary pounding on the back.

"I hope you don't have _too_ much to fill me in on." Draco smirked, trying to fit into his old role and finding it incredibly easy. "I still have a spot of Quidditch to play, and growing boys need their rest, or so I'm told."

At this, Raymond nearly beamed. "Your father has informed us all of your talents in Quidditch. Jessie and I are most fond of your efforts—Mr. Flint sent us photographs and Jessie has one framed in the kitchen. When we were at Hogwarts, the Slytherin team did not see such great captaincy. And is somebody watching out for you at Hogwarts, Master Draco? You make it sound like that." Draco inclined his head, showing his gratitude as gracefully as he could without flushing. Raymond and Jessie Daleford had been serving the Malfoys since Draco was a small boy, Raymond as a butler and Jessie as a cook. The couple was quite possibly Draco's second family. "And I have to ask, then. Has Master Draco found himself a nice girl yet?"

A smirk twisted Draco's lips as he was led into the parlor. "Perhaps I have. Only time will tell." He thought briefly of the time spent with Ginny on the train, but declined to tell the butler about her. What he and Ginny shared dug a bit too deep to go throwing it away on assumptions. "I fear that it might not be prudentto disclaim her identity—even the walls have ears here, Raymond."

The aging butler nodded and sighed as house elves entered the room, carrying a tea tray. "Thank you, Jinks and Dinkly." As Raymond took the tray from the two, the house elves bowed themselves out of the room and disappeared with bursts of gold magic. Instants later, Raymond's wife Jessie entered, smiling in her own way at the two men enjoying tea. "Ah! There you are! Come, we were just about to have tea!"

"Not until I get my hug," Jessie told him, smiling. She was a beautiful witch, but not in the same way his mother was beautiful. Her dark hair was shiny, although streaked heavily with intermingled gray and white, and her looks were even, but there was a glowing light within that made her positively stunning. Raymond always wondered aloud how a poor sod like himself could attain such a beautiful woman. "C'mere, you." Obediently, Draco stood and hugged her, receiving his customary kiss on the cheek as she did so. "My!" Jessie exclaimed, holding Draco at arm's length so that she could get a proper look at him. "You are surely taller than your father by now! When will you ever stop growing?"

If Draco found it disconcerting that he had to duck his head at an odd angle to look at her, he did not say. "When I'm done, I suppose," he said, smiling back. "How have the two of you been holding up?" As he said this, he sat down and reached for the tea Raymond had poured him.

"Oh, beautifully." Jessie waved one hand absently to tell Draco not to bother and poured sugar into her tea. "The garden certainly looks lovely at this time of year—perhaps the two of you will join me on a tour later?"

"And then perhaps we can watch Master Draco play his spot of Quidditch." Raymond grinned conspiratorially at his young charge. "Jessie always frets so whenever you get on that newfangled broomstick of yours." Jessie playfully hit him in the arm. "Oh, by the way, your father informed us of your studies. Perfect scores, the whole sweep of them!" Raymond whistled lowly. "You are turning out to be more brilliant than even your father was!"

Unlike the other people in his life, Raymond's compliments were meant to inspire, not flatter Draco. The young Malfoy heir found himself grinning as he had done when he was a young child. "Thank you," he managed to say before taking a long drink of tea. "I threw myself into my studies in hopes to impress Father. I hope it worked."

"One _can_ only hope," Jessie reminded him, and before the conversation could continue into a dark vein, started telling him about how one of the gardeners had had her baby, a healthy boy named Lionel. "And who knows?" she inquired innocently when she was done, "Lionel may attend Hogwarts with your own children. Wouldn't that be exciting?"

Like any other normal sixteen-year-old boy, Draco winced. "Already talking about children, are we?" he asked.

"Master Draco has met somebody," Raymond told his wife, positively smirking. "He can't tell me who, though."

Jessie turned an appraising gaze upon her young ward. "Has he now?" she asked her husband, her lips quirked up in a smile. Draco squirmed under the knowing stare and hated himself for it; Jessie was quite possibly the only person that could make him squirm like that. "What is she like, and who is she, for that matter?"

"Spirited." Draco shrugged and seemed willing to offer no more, but Jessie quickly needled him until he gave in. "All right. Her name's Ginny, is that enough for you?"

"Of course not, dear. What does she look like?" Raymond looked about to say something, but Jessie waved him off and instead fixed her attention on Draco.

Knowing his fate, Draco told them what he knew about Ginny, leaving out their initial meeting and her last name. When he mentioned the unusual color of her hair, Jessie let out a happy sigh. "Your mother once had red hair," she told Draco, beaming happily.

"Just because Ginny has red hair…" Draco began with the full indignation of any proper sixteen-year-old dragged into such an awkward topic.

Raymond threw his head back and laughed. "Dear, stop needling Master Draco." 

*

As a rule, as many of Ginny's older brothers who could came home for a dinner feast the night that the students who had been at Hogwarts returned home. This year, she was pleased to see that even Percy had cleared time out of his busy work schedule to attend the family meeting. With Bill and Charlie constantly in London, it had been no trouble for either of them to drop in, and the twins had even given up on Order of Phoenix business long enough for a spot of dinner with the entire family. It was nine loud Weasleys and somewhat reserved Hermione Granger that crowded around the table that night, intent on enjoying the full benefit of another one of Molly's delicious feasts. 

Ginny was secretly delighted that Hermione was staying at the Burrow for the first two weeks before she left to study with Professor Lupin. She loved being home, but Molly was always busy and none of the boys understood the woes of a teenage girl. Hermione had apologized for the way she had been acting, and they were good friends once again. The older girl had been ecstatic that she had been invited to spend the summer with Remus Lupin (and Sirius Black). Ginny knew that Hermione was really doing Order of Phoenix business; her whole family knew, but they were all playing along with the charade. 

"Pass the beans, will you, squirt?" Bill asked Ron now, grinning cheekily at his youngest brother. Ron was the tallest Weasley by an inch, surpassing even Percy in height. This, of course, led all of his wonderful older brothers to tease him ruthlessly.

Ron, grumbling, handed the bowl of beans over.

Ginny sat in between Fred and George, a dangerous position at the best of times. She did not mind tonight, however, for their jokes were always rather funny and usually made at Percy's expense. Even though they did slip her a pastry that turned her hair the most interesting shade of green for a brief moment, Ginny shrugged that off with the excuse that she barely ever got to see any of her brothers except Ron. She was not quite on speaking terms with Ron yet, still waiting for him to apologize about the incident in the Prefect's Bathroom. Fred and George helped her forget that for awhile.

The conversations were mostly kept congenial; topics ranged from Percy's growing relationship with Penelope Clearwater to the possibility that the Chudley Cannons could possibly take third in the league. Ginny tuned out the conversation between Ron and Charlie, comparing the Cannon's aspects of winning with those of the Surrey Sand-Dragons. Secretly, she just thought that Charlie wanted the Sand-Dragons to win only because they had the word "dragons" in their name. It had been rough for Charlie to leave his position in Romania for a brief time to aid in the cause of the Order of Phoenix, Ginny knew.

"How many O.W.L.S. do you think you received, Ginny?" Percy asked after he had swallowed a hearty bite of Molly's excellent roast.

Ginny shrugged indifferently. "Enough to pass, I'm sure," she said in her airiest tone. "Professor Dumbledore seems to think I do well enough in school. I've been offered a scholarship to attend a summer academy in the states next week."

Conversation stopped. "Why didn't you tell me about this, Gin?" Ron snapped. He received an admonishing look from his mother and Hermione.

Ginny rolled her eyes. The look that passed between Arthur and Molly at opposite ends of the table did not pass her notice. _You were being an arrogant prat, that's why! _she wanted to say to Ron, but held her tongue. Instead, she said, "I wanted it to be a surprise. Can I go, Mum? Daddy?"

Arthur floundered for an answer. "The states are awfully far away, dear," he said as gently as he could.

"A simple trip by Portkey, really, Daddy. The Academy is down in St. Louis, where some of the most fascinating magical developments in the states have been taking place. It's called St. Lawrence's Summer Academy for the Magically Competent, and it's in this really old cathedral. Headmaster Dumbledore told me all about it." Ginny carefully did not mention that she was not the only student that had been offered an opportunity to go. Four Ravenclaws had received extended invitations, as well as Draco, Hermione, and herself.

Indeed, Hermione now jumped to her defense. "It really is a wonderful opportunity, Mr. Weasley," she said, catching Ginny's eye. "I was offered an invitation, but I turned it down to study with Professor Lupin in Romania for the majority of the summer. St. Lawrence's offers so many opportunities that Ginny would not receive at Hogwarts, and Professor McGonagall herself informed me that Ginny is quite the adept student. Top of her year, I'm sure." Even though she smiled pleasantly for the Weasleys, her look clearly Ginny that the two of them needed to talk.

"Top of your year?" Molly Weasley asked, her hand flying to her chest. "Ginny, why didn't you tell us?"

Ginny blushed and looked down at her plate. "The thought just didn't occur to me, that's all," she muttered.

"Ginny Weasley, Head Girl." Bill stroked his new goatee thoughtfully. "It does have a certain appeal. Who would have thought? We have two Head Boys, might as well throw a Head Girl in there for variety, eh?"

"I guess," Ginny mumbled. She let the conversation wash over her then, exclamations of disbelief and wonder that the youngest Weasley had grown so much while the others had not been looking. More than anything else, she did not want to divulge exactly why her marks were so much higher than expected. If her parents or brothers truly knew where the extra knowledge was coming from, she was not quite certain they could handle it. After all, she could barely deal with it, and it resided within her own flesh, did it not?

When the feast ended, nobody except Hermione noticed that Ginny slipped up to her bedroom while the others gathered in the living room for quality family time. The bushy-haired girl watched her friend disappear up the stairs and frowned to herself. Ginny had really changed lately, and she appeared to be hiding something. Perhaps Hermione had not been the best of friends to her, but she intended to make that up later. Right now, she let Ron cajole her into a game of chess, knowing that he would win, and laughed at his jokes as he wiped her white knights, bishops, rooks, and pawns quite cleanly from the board and finally took her king. With Ron came comfort, at least.

*

Draco stood in front of the mirror and scowled fiercely at his reflection. When had he gotten so gangly, anyway? He was all sharp, unfriendly angles and he was much taller than Lucius now. At least his shoulders had broadened considerably, giving him a swimmer's profile with thin hips and wide shoulders. The blond hair that named him as a Malfoy was slicked back properly, and the dark circles had been magicked away by a willing House Elf. He wore black, for he always wore blacks and dark grays, preferring to dress to his sinister side. It was a fetching color on him, even if it made him appear even taller.

Carefully, Draco raised his palms to the glass and stared at the circular line of scars there. Scars inflicted by his own fingernails.

"Master Draco?" Raymond tapped politely on the door before poking his grizzled head in. "Should have known I would find you in front of the mirror. Your mother requests your presence at the dinner table now."

"Thank you. I will be down shortly." Draco lowered his hands and turned away from the mirror, facing a dresser that he used as an impromptu table of sorts. He had not yet had time to organize his things yet, so it took him a minute to find what he was looking for. Holding his prize, he returned to this mirror and fastened the pendant firmly about his neck. It was a simple, short chain with an amulet of a snake's head dangling from it. It lay as though it belonged there over his robes as Draco checked his appearance in the mirror once again. Finally satisfied, he turned and swept from the room.

His mother and father were seated on opposite ends of the long table they always used for dinner at Malfoy Manor. During lunch and breakfast, Draco was free to get his own food from the kitchens, but dinner was always a formal affair at the manor. When it was only Narcissa and Draco, Draco usually assumed his father's place at the head of the table, but now he headed for his usual seat in the middle. It was a grand table, set for twenty in all, so there was a lot of cutlery and china in between both Draco and his parents. This was the way he preferred it to be.

"Come give your mother a kiss, dear," Narcissa said, rising as Draco entered the room. Obediently, Draco crossed the room and stooped to kiss his mother on the cheek. He had grown quite a bit taller over the past year, apparently, for now he was taller than both of his parents. Narcissa had Veela blood in her, so she was tall, willowy, and very blond. Both Draco and his father were taller than she was, but not by much. When Draco had left last September, he had been the same height as his mother. Now he almost seemed to tower over her. "Well, you've certainly grown to an awkward height." She patted Draco's shoulder as though he were a small child and dismissed him back to his seat.

Lucius eyed his son as Draco seated himself. "So you've returned, then?" he sneered. "Did you learn _anything_ this year, or must I hire another tutor?" As he spoke, the food appeared on the table, very much like Hogwarts.

Draco returned his look. "I don't know if being top of my year tells if I've learned anything or not." His voice was coolly indifferent, iced with an undertow of hatred. Draco would take a dive from the top of the Quidditch stands before admitting that Lucius Malfoy, or the mere thought of him, terrified him so much that he wanted to curl up into a fetal position. Although he wanted no more right now than to run away screaming, he forced himself to give his father a cold look and reached for the plate of crab legs, his personal favorite.

Most sons would receive a smile or even a hug about this news, Draco knew, but he never would. It was with resigned acceptance that he nodded at his mother's cooing and tried not to flinch as his father berated him for bragging. Draco had long ago learned that there was no pleasing his father.


	5. Whimsical Reality

A/N: Okay, I've started to call this chapter "In Which Draco and Ginny Escape from the Oppressive Atmosphere in England and Many Confusing Things Happen," but I felt that title was a bit too long. *grin* This is kind of the chapter where nothing really happens but a lot of character building, but I promise you that the next chapter will be just as delightfully boring. However, Draco's about to start seeing some action soon, and I wouldn't doubt there might even be a smidgen of D/G buried somewhere in these next few chapters. *evil evil grin* So, without further ado (excepting the disclaimer), I give you **Whimsical Reality**, the fifth installment of the epic story where Draco isn't narcissistically evil and Ginny isn't a shallow pushover, **Deeper Than Blood**. 

Disclaimer: What with all the names flying about, I'm not really sure who owns what anymore. The characters you don't recognize are probably original, and if you want to use them, go ahead, but I'd appreciate it if you asked first. Otherwise, it's not mine, and no money is being made.

__

Everything seemed a little easier

When we weren't one hundred miles apart

The person across from me

Sitting in the train seat 

Reminded me of you

- Third Engine, Saves The Day

****

Whimsical Reality

Chapter Five

__

The blackness rushed in to meet him.

His entire frame wracked from the pain, all-consuming like a hungry fire, that had taken him and stretched him from one point of eternity to another. Time was meaningless.

There was nothing but the pain and the darkness.

"Did you like that, son_?" Lucius Malfoy's cold voice forced through the pain. Draco had never wished for anything more than he did right now. He wanted away from this lunatic, who rent his son so coldly. "Beg and perhaps I won't give you any more."_

Draco gritted his teeth and tested his position. His arms were flung out rather haphazardly, locked into place with dark magic. He could feel his feet, the toes curled up in resistance to the pain, below him. His body was curled up, just like his toes. Arms spread, he crouched there and felt the hot stickiness run along his back, dripping off of his bare stomach. The blue jeans he wore, an odd article of clothing even for such gruesome business, were undoubtedly stained with his own blood.

Sandpaper rubbed at his throat and the insides of his ribs. Somebody had taken his esophagus and had replaced it with a vacuum that burned. Every sinew was throbbing, his very body and soul quaking together while the fury intermingled with the fear. His vision faded in and out, turning white as the fury overtook.

With a roar, Draco flung himself to his feet, natural magic breaking the bonds that held him. The room lit up with magical fire as Draco's fury directed his actions. There was a shrill scream; burning flesh tore through the air. The blood flowed freely now as Draco surged forward, nothing in his mind but to kill…

Kill…

KILL! Every instinct screamed for the end of mortality. His mouth yearned for the taste of somebody else's blood. His eyes thirsted for the sight of a cold grave lying open. Of sightless eyes like the ones Lucius had seen on his own son. Never had the bloodlust been this strong.

**KILL**! Intent to obey, Draco cast both arms in front of his body, sending white-hot flames directly at his father's head.

But something was wrong. The fire reflected off of Lucius without even leaving a scorch mark. His father just stood there while Draco charged. With a lazy flick of his wand, he froze Draco's feet. Struggle through he might, Draco could not move, and bonds grabbed his wrists. "It's working, finally. Inform Lord Voldemort that his plan has finally begun to pay off." 

"Obliviate_!" _

Draco awoke with a wrenching gasp and shot to his feet, falling flat onto his face as his feet tangled up in the blankets. Before he could control himself, he had leaped atop his dresser and was staring in horror at the mirror across the room.

The dream had felt so _real_.

He could see his reflection even from this distance. He was crouched on his hands and his feet like a scared mouse. In the mirror, he looked like nothing more than a scared sixteen-year-old kid, who had just had a nightmare. 

In his mind, however, he felt the bloodlust. He saw the crazed eyes of his own head, felt the insane desire to kill, maim, destroy.

Something dark was calling him.

Something inside.

Inside of him. Inside of him, that fury existed. That craze to kill.

That danger.

He crouched on the dresser, unmoving until the first rays of dawn began to creep across the marble floor of his bedroom. His eyes did not blink, and he could hear nothing but the pounding of his own heart, amplified in his ears. When the noises of the house elves in the kitchen below, noises he was used to, finally broke through that, he climbed off of the dresser. His muscles creaked, but he didn't really notice, nor care. In a daze, he dressed himself and headed downstairs for breakfast. He was a Malfoy, after all. He had to look presentable.

Draco Malfoy would always look perfectly polished on the outside, even when the demons lived inside.

__

*

St. Lawrence's Academy for the Magically Competent sat, rather buried, in between a bar and a sports arcade of sorts. Like the Leaky Cauldron in London, Muggle eyes just seemed to slide over it, traveling along to the shops along the way. They did not notice the smoke-glass door with brightly painted letters reading "St. Lawrence's: Enter Here!"

Neither did Ginny, at first. She stood in the crowd of Hogwarts students (a trio of Ravenclaws and herself, really) and looked around for the giant cathedral that had been described to her in the letter. She saw nothing but tourist shops and bars with bright gaudy signs, hoping to lure unsuspecting tourists into their money-traps. This part of New York City also seemed to have a lot of street-vendors. She pulled her summer jacket closer around the T-shirt she was wearing, despite the fact that she was already perspiring lightly. Summers in England were completely different than summers in New York, obviously. She hoped that St. Lawrence's had cooling spells.

The group from Hogwarts stuck out horribly even in such a strange place. Ginny had never known her voice to draw so much attention before. They had portkeyed over from London, landing in a small wizarding outlet just outside of the Muggle airport. An American wizard from St. Lawrence's had been there to greet them, and they had been loaded, rather surprisingly, into a red minivan. Now they were crowded onto the street, feeling very strange with their British accents and mannerisms in the middle of the city reputed to be filled with thieves and criminals. Ginny eyed a bunch of passing Hispanic Muggles with some trepidation, for they looked as though they belonged in a Muggle gang. Ginny had definitely read about those in all the books her father had brought home from work.

At least, she thought they were Muggles. They could easily have been wizards. Wizards in America, Ginny knew, dressed like Muggles and existed evenly within the Muggle community. In fact, wizard children attended the first seven years of school with Muggle children. There were no entirely wizarding towns in America, and the school system was entirely different than it was in England. Wizards and witches in the United States went to one of four schools located in the States, but only one was a boarding school. How they got to and from school over such great distances, Ginny was not entirely certain, but she was sure that they did not use trains.

"This door here," the liaison from St. Lawrence's told the students. "You're running late, too. Hurry, please." It was strange seeing an adult wizard in Muggle clothing. Their liaison was wearing, above all things, jeans and a T-shirt that said "St. Lawrence's" in block letters.

Ginny went last, following the garrulous Ravenclaws. It was all right for them to chatter; they knew each other very well because they were in the same house, but she only knew one by name. Ginny was not exactly the most sociable of people.

Instead of leading into a building, however, the door did nothing of the sort. As she crossed the threshold into the darkness within, there was a jerk in her middle and she stepped out into the rain. She looked behind her and saw darkness where New York sunlight had been. The door closed and she read, "St. Lawrence's: Exit Here!"

Ginny blinked.

A woman wearing a St. Lawrence's T-shirt bustled up to the group. Ginny got the distinct impression of dyed blonde hair and a big, toothy smile before she drawled in a southern accent, "Are you all the Hogwarts group? Or are you the Beaubaxtons students?" She looked completely unaffected by the rain.

"We're Hogwarts, ma'am," one of the Ravenclaws—was his name Terry?—answered politely. He was the only one of the group that looked truly comfortable in a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. He had pushed up the sleeves to his elbows, Ginny noticed. "If I may be so bold to ask, where are we?"

"St. Louis, Missouri. Home of the Arch!" When the students looked at her in utter confusion, the woman sighed and said, "Just look up."

Ginny had never seen such a magnificent or monstrously huge sight. They were standing at the base of perhaps the most unique piece of architecture she had ever laid eyes on. It was the size of a very large house at the base and gradually thinned out, arcing up and over to slowly drop to another house-sized base. In between the bases stretched a green field, full of Muggles in very revealing clothing. Ginny eyed them nervously, wondering where the other half of their clothing was.

"Hey! Where'd the door go?" one of the Ravenclaws cried out. Turning, Ginny saw that the door reading "St. Lawrence's: Exit Here!" had indeed vanished. She blinked at she looked at the gray area where it had been; they must have come directly out of the arch…

"Yes. That's the great thing about portals—they disappear when you don't need them," their guide said with a smile. "Come, we have a bit of walking to do before we can reach the next portal." She led them across the field, where they received quite a few more looks about their odd clothing (one of the Ravenclaws had worn robes over her skirt and tank top). "I'm Lorraine Michaels, and I'll be one of instructors at St. Lawrence's. You all are free to call me Lori."

It truly was an odd society when students were able to refer to their instructors by the first name, Ginny reflected. She didn't even _know_ half of her professors' first names!

"I'm Terry Boot," the Ravenclaw that she vaguely knew said. Quickly, Ginny looked at him and set the name to dark hair and sharp features. He kind of resembled a hawk, she saw. "This here's Mandy Brocklehurst, and Daniel Moon. We just call him Danny." Noticing Ginny, he said, "Er, and this is…er…"

"Ginny Weasley, ma'am. I'm in a different house at Hogwarts, so the introductions are as new to me as they are to you. It truly is a big school, and we are honored to be here." Ginny gave Lori her brightest smile and looked over at the Ravenclaws. Danny Moon was brown-skinned and had dark eyes that resembled pieces of Honeyduke's chocolate. Mandy Brocklehurst had bright blonde hair that put Lavender's new hair color to shame, and blue-green eyes. She smiled silently at Ginny, who grinned back. They would be the only British girls in the new school, so some female bonding might be required.

Even though Ginny had been through London a few times, walking through St. Louis was quite possibly one of the strangest things she had ever done. For one thing, the people drove the wrong way! The driver was sitting in the passenger's seat, just like in New York! When they climbed into another red minivan, Ginny felt a bit strange climbing into the place that her father would have normally taken.

Lori eased the minivan into traffic as she told the group about how things worked at St. Lawrence's. "I'm afraid we don't have a house system set up," she told the group, "like at Hogwarts. Boys sleep in Trenton Hall and the girls sleep in Raleigh Hall. The halls are located on opposite sides of the campus, so there's no confusion about who's sleeping where. Boys are allowed in girls' dormitories, as long as they're not asleep, and vise versa. Doors must be open, however."

As Lori went on to explain about how the class schedule was set up, about how they did not really attend classes at St. Lawrence's, but lectures. It wasn't a school, really, but a three-week long seminar for magical students all over the world. It was held in St. Louis because the arch acted as an excellent portal for the North and South American communities. The European, Asian, African, and Australian students had to portkey to the nearest place on either of the two continents—they then took the portal to St. Louis. 

Students would pick which seminars they would attend for the first two weeks that evening at the open house. For the third week, the students would all attend more practical sessions, picked during a meeting with a personal counselor. Meals in the mess hall were free of charge for those who had student passes, and there was a lot to do in the evenings. Ginny listened with some interest, for what Lori was telling them would dictate the first part of her summer.

Danny asked what sort of lectures there were, and Lori obediently listed a few, including the ones she spoke at. The honored guest speaker was going to be an American who had studied the American dark wizards and compared them to the European and South American dark wizards. Ginny was quite interested in attending this lecture, just to see if this speaker's information about Voldemort matched hers. When Lori mentioned a lecture on preparing a magical diary, or giving a diary a personality, Ginny let out an audible gasp. She flushed when everybody in the car turned to look at her and muttered, "Sorry. Was interested, that's all."

"Some of the American wizard counselors have taken to giving out charmed diaries to help cases in broken homes or Muggle-borns who have difficulty surviving in both worlds," Lori told the group. "Now, that's always an interesting one to attend. The speaker is a little fellow who goes by Thomas Wydell. It's a bit of a complicated matter in the American Wizard Government, but if you're even remotely interested, you should attend."

The Ravenclaws were obviously fascinated and spent the rest of the car ride picking Lori's brain about what she knew concerning the matter. Nobody noticed Ginny's silence.

*

Raymond woke Draco early ten days after the adolescent had returned from Hogwarts by giving him a gentle shake. "Draco, son, time to wake up. Your father's on the warpath about something, and you'd better get down there before something blows up."

"Yeah, like me," Draco muttered, but kicked his legs out of bed and padded over to his closet. The eternally cold floor nearly burned his bare feet, and he fought back a hiss of surprise. "What's his diatribe about this morning, and why does he pick such early hours to have these episodes?" As he spoke, he pulled a pair of loose slacks over his boxers and rummaged around for a belt with his free hand. Once that was found, he held it in his teeth while he fastened his pants.

"Cruel and unusual punishment?" the butler asked with the smallest of smiles. "He's going off at the house elves again, and your mother's already off to do her shopping in town."

"Figures." Draco's voice was muffled by the belt. Ignoring the piece of leather in his mouth, he reached into his closet and withdrew a button-up white shirt. "Be a sport, Raymond, and fetch me my robe from behind the door there?" He spit the accessory out and focused on threading it through the belt loops. "It seems that whenever Mother's in town, he rounds on the house elves or worse, me."

Getting dressed quickly and nicely was one of Draco's skills. In the time it took Raymond to retrieve the robe, he reached into the closet and withdrew a simple white tie. It was tied by the time that Raymond handed the robe over. Quickly, Draco slid the dark green fabric over his outfit and tied it properly at the waist. "Any idea what set him off, Raymond?" Draco asked as he followed his butler out of the room.

"I think it was the dark lord's commands that arrived this morning," Raymond said in the quietest of voices, for even the walls could hear at Malfoy Manor. "By owl post, too. Such an odd occurrence."

"Thank you for the warning, then," Draco said, and the two parted ways. Raymond had to hurry down the servant's stairway located behind the servants' quarters, and Draco was forced to descend down the main stairway in his position as the heir to the Malfoy Galleons. Quickly, he ran his fingers through his hair to give it a brushed appearance and hurried to face his father's wrath. While many people would still look asleep two minutes after being drawn from their dreams, Draco had the ability to look as though he had already been awake for hours. It was a defense technique, really, in order to stay a step ahead of Lucius.

Lucius Malfoy was located in the parlor, where he went to brood over a shot or two of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey, no matter what hour of the day it was. Draco had entered scenes similar to the very one he entered upon now for his entire life. The parlor was perhaps his favorite place in the manor, for it was decorated in shades of green and brown, and always had a fire going. It was possibly the warmest room the manor had to offer. The only thing that made it cold now was the presence of the man he loathed most. Predictable to his last drop, Lucius was sitting in his normal chair and facing the fire, his frame hunched forward in a brooding manner. "Good morning, Father," Draco greeted formally, standing on the threshold.

"Draco." Lucius offered no greetings, but Draco had expected none. The most his father had said to him had been on the first night back, and that had been nothing but scorn. Conversations between the family were quiet and very reserved, usually kept on topics like the weather and petty problems in the ministry. "My lord has been in contact."

Draco did not allow Lucius to glimpse any of the fear he felt. "Has he now?" he asked, keeping his voice perfectly blithe. He crossed the room and seated himself quite rigidly on the sofa located across from his father. "Still pattering about doing his bidding, I see. Got any medals to show for it yet? An 'I Support Lord Voldemort' badge to wear around the ministry, perhaps?" He was pleased to see that his slogan had rhymed, although he would pay dearly for his little joke.

Indeed Lucius fixed his only child with a beady glare. Fortunately, he did not comment on Draco's insolence. "Lord Voldemort will remain successful and the Malfoy family will reap the benefits, need I remind you," Lucius said in a clipped tone as he gave his son a scathing glare. They still looked like a before-and-after picture, but with Lucius's hair long and pulled back, and Draco's only reaching to his collar, they looked far different. "His orders actually had to do with you." Gray eyes, so like Draco's own, narrowed and fixed him with a piercing arrow of suspicion. "He wants you to attend this little summer academy, for appearance purposes. And he wants you to keep an eye out for any signs of dark activity rising against him in that area."

Although ice lined the insides of Draco's lungs, his heart gave an almighty leap. He did not dare to let the hope show on his face. "I'm to attend St. Lawrence's Academy, then?" he asked without any inflection of hope or excitement in his voice. "Hasn't it been going on for a week?"

The scowl Lucius gave him told him more clearly than any words that Draco was not supposed to ask questions. "Yes. You will only be staying for a week, for that matter. Our lord expects that you will pay careful attention to what lectures have been assigned you—you will be expected to make a report at our next meeting."

Draco had been attending Death Eater meetings, with and without his father, for the better part of two years, but that did nothing to quell the sudden rise of nauseating fear that flamed inside of him. A serpent of doubt had coiled about his heart and Draco had a hard time breathing as it tightened. Outwardly, he gave no sign of an inward battle and instead nodded curtly. "Very well, I shall go pack, then."

"Have Daleford—" Lucius insisted on calling Raymond by his last name. "—help you with your things. He will be able to transfigure some more appropriate summer clothing for you to wear in _America_." This last bit came out as a sneer; Draco had been raised to have no respect for the American Wizard Government and the practices of the American magical community. 

Still effectively hiding his excitement, he crossed the room to do as his father had ordered, but paused once again on the threshold. He felt as though he were going to be sick right there on the parlor floor from staying in there for so long. Still, however, his voice remained absolutely steady. "What else has the master to say, Father?"

"Nothing that concerns _you_." Lucius's voice was steely. "Don't ask questions." Even Potter would have been able to tell this for an exit line, and Draco left the parlor. His foot—clad only in a sock—nearly touched the cold tile of the hallway before he remembered his manners.

"Yes, Father."

In his room, Draco opened the door to his closet and frowned at the contents as he removed his robe and hung that up properly. He was wearing his only white shirt, and from what he knew of summers in America, they were _hot_. Black would not be a practical color to wear there, despite the fact that he had grown up in black, it seemed. "Need help?" a kindly voice asked behind him.

Jessie had obviously made time to escape from the kitchens with breakfast for him. She set a tray down on his dresser and moved to the closet behind him. "I forget that you insist on dressing so morbidly!" she exclaimed, examining the contents. She shushed Draco when he started to protest and held up a green shirt against him. "Now a good blue would do wonders for your eyes, you know."

"That's not entirely the problem," Draco said, and explained his dilemma. While Jessie looked a bit nervous at the mention of Voldemort's summons, she was genuinely happy that he would be able to attend the convention. "The school is located in a place called St. Louis, and from what I gather, summers are _hot_ there. I've all black clothing, and it's all long and heavy. Father ordered me to ask Raymond to transfigure something for me, since Mother won't have time to shop for me. Or, at least, that's what I imagine that case to be."

Jessie eyed his collection and nodded to herself. She seemed to be holding a conversation inside her head at the same time. "Very well. I'll see what the house elves and I can do. Give me some of your older shirts, and some pants as well. Raymond will be in here in a few minutes to eat breakfast with you and to help you pack. Be back in a few!" She disappeared with an armload of Draco's clothing, and Draco turned to the tray she had left. It contained a sizable breakfast for two (Jessie was always convinced that he starved himself at Hogwarts), so Draco picked it up and carried it to the small poker table in the corner of his room.

When he was younger and stupid, he had played poker and exploding snap at this very table. Always for money, it seemed, for Draco's father always had several of his rich friends over. It was always Draco's job to entertain the children of any guests his father had. Many times, the night had ended at the table he sat at now, with one child gloating and the rest sulking. As Draco aged, he slowly became the child that gloated more and more often. He had a poker face that not even a Bludger could knock away. This face was predominant now, hiding any excitement in the back corner of his personality.

When Raymond entered several minutes later, he was bearing an armload of clothing and positively smirking. "I see Jessie's had her way with you," he said, and deposited the clothing in an empty seat. Draco looked over and found, to his utter horror, that most of the shirts he had given Jessie were now polo shirts, charmed to be several shades of blue. In fact, most of them were baby blue, to his dismay. "Luckily, she left a few green ones in there. Look, here's even a dress shirt that you can wear to a dance, or a cotillion, or whatever it is they have out there." He held up a button-up blue shirt and a blue tie that matched, and Draco fought a grimace. The last ball he had been to had been the Yule Ball, back in fourth year.

Raymond pulled a bit of parchment out of his pocket and cleared his throat. "I've just received my official orders from your father—all very nicely written in pretty handwriting, see? It actually reminds me of my older sister's handwriting whenever she was flirting with her latest caller." He showed Draco the parchment, finally drawing a smirk from the boy. "So, you leave in four and a half hours. I've just been down to talk to Winston, and you should be in America by seven in the morning, their time. The quickest way is a rendezvous in New York City and then a portal to St. Louis, through what they call the arch. Somebody should be waiting there to escort you to St. Lawrence's." Raymond spread a liberal amount of marmalade over his toast. "From there," he continued through a mouthful of toast, "you'll be given a room in Trenton Hall, on the St. Lawrence's campus. Your schedule has already been owled to St. Lawrence's, so you really shouldn't have any problems at all."

Draco nodded through a mouthful of his own toast; he had read about portals when he had attempted to make a portkey earlier on in the year. British wizards did not use them because portals were generally used to travel over great expanses of land. Portkeys were generally used for traveling over the Atlantic Ocean, because portals were useless over water. Apparating was just a foolish idea.

"What's the time distance, then?"

"Well, it's five hours in New York City, and six hours in St. Louis. You'll actually arrive in St. Louis about six thirty in the morning, and I imagine that you'll be quite exhausted by then. So you can acquaint yourself with the American schedule of sleeping by catching a bit of a catnap." Raymond smiled as he folded the parchment back up and placed it carefully in the pocket of his uniform. "For once, I agree with the dark lord's orders—this will be such a grand opportunity for you!"

Draco could not stop the grin now. "Now you're just starting to sound like Jessie. Don't go all motherly on me, Raymond!"

"Yes, well, the best of us can't help ourselves." Raymond stood up and picked up the load of laundry, Banishing it into a suitcase with his wand. "Jessie said something about taking you shopping, so you might want to head down to the kitchens now. I dare say she'll pester you more about this Ginny character."

The last thing Raymond heard as he left Draco's room was the typical groan of a sixteen-year-old boy.

*

Ginny had adapted remarkably well to St. Lawrence's carefree atmosphere, despite the unholy heat within the cathedral. All of the lecture rooms were kept cool by a series of charms unique to the area, but the dormitories and the mess hall had no such charms. Ginny was grateful that her mother had managed to purchase some lighter clothing for her, even if Molly had moped and grumbled about sending her baby to America the whole time. When the day got too unbearably hot, Ginny could always head down to the convenience store down the street with Mandy or some of her American friends to pick up a cold drink. Witches and wizards in America, she had discovered, were fond of a drink called "soda" or "coke." It tasted funny and it tickled Ginny's nose when she first drank it, but she had discovered that she actually liked it—but not as much as pumpkin juice. Nothing could beat pumpkin juice.

That was the conservative "Brit" in her talking, her new American friends always said.

She sat in between two of her new American friends now, listening to one of the lectures she had signed up for. Mandy was in the row in front of them, seated between Danny Moon and Terry Boot, and looking equally as fascinated as Ginny felt. It was an Arithmancy lecture, and Ginny had always loved Arithmancy. Hermione had advised her to take it during her third year, and she had approached the subject with understandable trepidation. Ginny may have been the top of her year, but she would never compare to Hermione and her brilliance. Hermione was like a walking dictionary; Ginny was extremely good at practical magic and passable at her essays. The problem with Ginny was that she was bored with most of the topics they taught at Hogwarts, because they were things that she knew already. She wasn't about to let anybody know that, though.

Was it really that possible that the curriculum had not changed very much in fifty years?

Elizabeth "Liz" Abends and Meghan "Meg" Detooki were two of the closest friends she had picked up in America. Liz lived across the hall from Ginny and Mandy in Raleigh Hall. Ginny had befriended Liz over dinner in the mess hall. Meg, Liz joked often, came with the package. 

If Ginny ever had a twin, it would be Meg. The two were exactly the same height, and of medium weight, with brown eyes and hair exactly the same shade of titian red. Even Liz had slipped up and called Ginny "Meg" one time; of course, she had jumped and corrected herself when Ginny opened her mouth. Sometimes, Ginny felt that their voices and aspects of their personalities were the only things that set her apart from Meg. The other girl spoke with what Ginny had heard referred to as a "southern twang."

The lecturer today was youngish—he couldn't have been much older than Charlie or Bill—and had black hair that was purposely spiked up. He introduced himself out of the class of '83 at Hogwarts and grinned at the three obvious Ravenclaws in the front row. "Yes, Hogwarts '83, you heard right. One of the best years of my life. I used to be a Gryffindor, you know. Brave of heart and chivalrous to the very end."

Ginny glanced over and was amused to see Meg practically swooning in her spot. "Just because he's got an accent doesn't mean he's all that great," she warned in a soft voice. "We Gryffindors tend to be a bit stuck up."

Liz just grinned and shook her head on the other side of Ginny. "When Meg's hooked, she's _hooked_. Just pay attention to the lecture, and if she makes any noises, ignore her." She nodded at her own notes, where she had written down the title of the lecture, and the name of the speaker. Ginny hurried to do the same. She had very studiously taken notes at all of the lectures she had already attended, following Liz's example. This had turned out to be incredibly useful, for all of the lectures were slowly starting to meld into one formidable mass of information.

Ewan Roulter turned out to be a fascinating speaker, thoroughly interested himself in what he was talking about. It was obvious that he had put a great deal of effort into studying the Patronus charm, but told the group in a rather regretful tone that setting a Patronus in a room where there wasn't a Dementor was a bad idea. The intense atmosphere of happiness around the Patronus that allowed it to drive Dementors away could be rather painful when in such small quarters, like the lecture hall.

Ginny's notes raced across the page, but she looked up often, catching references of what she had already learned in Arithmancy. She had to grin occasionally, for Ewan Roulter often dropped references about old "Stuffy-Top Vector." She could tell by the set of Terry's shoulders that he did not like this Ewan fellow very much; Professor Vector was well known for favoring Ravenclaws, anyway.

Her cramped handwriting had filled up two and a half pages on the composition of the Patronus by the time that Ewan Roulter was done talking, but she was still curious about all of the aspects he had not covered. There were so many dimensions to a Patronus that it was impossible to cover in a ninety-minute long lecture, but Ewan Roulter mentioned that he would be doing a follow-up directly after lunch. Unfortunately, Ginny had signed up for another lecture, and attending the other lecture was more important to her general sanity.

"I'm going to be attending the follow-up, so I'll take notes for you," Liz offered, seeing Ginny's dismay.

Ginny smiled gratefully at her. "I've see a Patronus in action, I just didn't realize it was this complex," she explained as the three of them gathered up their notepads and pens. In the week that she had accustomed herself to using a pen, she had found that she rather liked using this Muggle utensil. She didn't have to stop and re-ink the pen at all, which made for an easier time in taking notes.

"You've seen a Patronus in action?" Meg demanded, turning on her quite suddenly. Liz's own blue eyes reflected her surprise. "What _do _they teach you in that school? I thought full Patroni were really rare. Not a lot of people can produce a real one!"

"They _are_ rare." They filed out of the lecture hall with the rest of the students, and Ginny tossed Ewan Roulter a nod. He, instead of nodding back, beckoned her over, his expression clearly confused. Meg and Liz followed her over, both looking as curious as she felt.

"I thought Charlie only had one set of twins in his family," Ewan said suspiciously, looking from Ginny to Meg. Meg looked utterly bewildered, her confusion only growing as Ginny let out a little giggle. "You _are_ of the Weasley family, aren't you? Spitting image of a female Bill, I swear."

"Yes, I'm a Weasley. Ginny Weasley. And you were right—there _is _only one set of twins in my family. Fred and George—they've graduated Hogwarts by now, and have started their own joke shop. This is my friend Meghan Detooki. We're not related." Ginny smiled, and said to Meg, "Bill and Charlie are my eldest brothers. They went to Hogwarts with Ewan, I wouldn't doubt." 

"An enigma unto herself! The only Weasley female!" Ewan had an easy smile that Ginny supposed gained him easy popularity everywhere he went. Meg was certainly weak in the knees from it. "So, how many Weasley children are there now?"

Ginny smiled apologetically. "Still only seven, I'm afraid. I'm the youngest."

Both Liz and Meg, who had not known this about her, looked at her in astonishment. "You mean, you've got six older brothers?" Liz asked. She sounded amazed, but Ginny was used to this reaction. 

"Are they cute?" Meg immediately asked, tearing her eyes from Ewan.

"_Yuck_, no! They're my _brothers_!"

Laughing at Ginny's display of disgust, Ewan Roulter shook his head and began to gather up his notes. "Well, pass on my hellos to Bill and Charlie, would you? So sad to see Charlie gave his fate up to the dragons. He could have played for England, he could." He smiled warmly, clapped Ginny on the shoulder, and left the three girls alone in the lecture hall.

Meg immediately demanded that Ginny list all of her brothers for the pair of them, so she laughingly did so, throwing in things like, "Oh, Percy sucked his thumb until he was about ten or so," and "Yeah, I still have pictures from the time that Ron decided to run around with his underwear on his head. I'm saving them for his first serious girlfriend."

Even in America, she couldn't escape the shadows of her older brothers.

*

As much as Draco wanted to catch a catnap the instant he set foot inside of the great cathedral, his father had other plans. He had been given a tube, sealed with black wax, full of instructions. Draco also imagined that his schedule of lectures would be enclosed, for none of the staff at St. Lawrence's knew that he was there yet. He had Apparated directly from the portal to the Apparition point outside of St. Lawrence's, using a bathroom stall located in the underground lobby beneath the arch.

His luggage had been shrunk into one knapsack, making him look more like a preppy college student than before. He set this down on the floor of the telephone booth, the Apparition point, and opened the message tube. Words written in a spidery, insidious hand stared back at him.

"_Young Malfoy,_

I can only assume that you reached your destination safely, or my words would have been written needlessly. I sincerely hope that my time has not been wasted."

Present or not, Voldemort still manage to sound sinister. Draco fought back a shiver.

"_As my newest Death Eater-to be, I expect a lot from you, Mr. Malfoy. One of the things I expect from your time in America is that you get in contact with the people listed below. Do say hello to Lana Grey and her husband for me—she was a classmate of mine at Hogwarts._"

Even an inhumane beast had people he could glibly say hello to. The irony struck him as entirely unfair; Draco had no such acquaintances, and he was actually a rather decent sort of fellow now that he metamorphosed. His lips thinned as he continued reading.

"_Enjoy your lectures—I picked several of the most interesting that I believe will help you in your flight as my servant. Be good and be sure to make friends, Mr. Malfoy. We wouldn't want anybody suspecting anything now, would we?_

"_Your master,_

"_Lord Voldemort._"

The instant Draco read Voldemort's name, the first parchment dissolved as though eaten away by acid. Draco blew the ashes off of his fingertips and turned to the other parchments left behind. His schedule was written in standard print, probably sent directly to his father from St. Lawrence's. Underneath that was a blackened piece of parchment containing four family names in blood-red ink. It was this parchment that Draco stared hard at, memorizing the names presented him.

He then stuffed both parchments into the pocket of his new khakis, purchased only that morning. With a neutral smirk, he shouldered his knapsack and headed in for his first view of St. Lawrence's. He had pushed off going long enough, puttering inanely about the museum buried under the St. Louis Arch, that most of the attendees should be eating lunch right now.

Draco allowed the first grin since leaving Raymond to cross his face. Wouldn't Ginny be surprised to see him?

*

After lunch, Liz headed back to the lecture hall they had just left to sit through the follow-up of Ewan Roulter's lecture. Meg and Ginny, however, had signed up for a different lecture entirely. If Ginny's feet felt leaden as she moved down the halls of St. Lawrence's, Meg did not notice. Instead, Meg was chattering on about her older brother's fiancee and how evil she was. They had been talking about family members all the way through eating the gruel the mess hall had to offer.

"Enchanted Diaries: Everything You Need To Know" was written on a sign taped to the door. Not noticing Ginny's hesitation, Meg nearly bounced inside and found them a good spot in the second row, near the end of the aisle. There was only one chair between Ginny and the aisle, actually, and it looked as though it would be filled by the time the lecture rolled around. This was going to be a popular class, she could see already.

Ginny opened her notebook to a fresh page and began to doodle as Meg continued complaining about Brian and Annie The Perfect. Normally, Ginny liked Meg's babble, but her mind would not focus on anything right now. She kept her eyes on the lined paper so that nobody would fully see the look on her face—that of frightened prey.

__

Why are you doing this to yourself? the little voice that always popped up in the worst moments to question her motives demanded. _You could be listening to that fascinating lecture by Ewan Roulter, you know. Such a handsome man, and not _too_ many years your senior. _

"As if nine or ten years isn't too many," Ginny muttered under her breath. The voice inside only seemed to sigh and give in.

A nudge at her arm was the only sign she had that somebody had taken the unoccupied spot next to hers. She looked up—and promptly gasped.

Meg's commentary stopped and she stared, somewhat puzzled at the young man Ginny had transfixed herself with. "Um, hello," she said when she saw that Ginny wasn't going to speak. "I'm Meghan Detooki. Who might you be?"

The young man looked back at her with lidded gray eyes, darkened by the royal blue shirt he wore. In contrast to all of the lecture-attendees at St. Lawrence's with their simple blue jeans and T-shirts, he was very well dressed in a pair of pressed khakis and a collared shirt. He could almost pass for a lecturer, not a student. "Nice to meet you." The British accent he spoke with was slightly more formal than Ginny's. "I'm Draco Malfoy. I'm an acquaintance of Ginny's—and I wasn't aware that she had a twin."

Meg's eyes lit up at the sound of Draco's accent. Ginny really didn't notice that her friend had a new obsession; she was instead staring at Draco's face, wondering how the bags under his eyes had disappeared. He looked healthy and well rested, something she was sure he couldn't have gotten from Malfoy Manor. Surely all of the things he had told her on the train were not an act. "We're not related at all, would you believe it? So you're from Hogwarts, too?" Meg asked, her voice distant in Ginny's ears.

"Yes, I'm actually from a rival house," Draco said just as Ginny came to her senses and demanded, "What are you doing here? I thought your father said that you weren't attending St. Lawrence's."

For a long moment, the two just stared at each other, and Meg found her way out of the conversation with a discreet cough. There was obviously unresolved conflict there, she noticed, and was content to leave the two of them at it. Besides, the lecturer had entered and was standing at his podium, smiling idly as the room filled up to the gills with eager lecture-attendees.

"Orders change," Draco replied in a clipped voice, ignoring Meg. He looked odd in clothing that was not the typical school uniform, but Ginny wasn't paying attention to that. She had, after all, seen him in a "Puddlemere United" T-shirt and shorts with Snitches all over them. Really, he just looked like any other teenage boy right now—except that his face was too pointed and perhaps his hair was too blond. "I'm only here for a week. There are some lectures that my…father…wants me to sit in on." From the way he had said "father," Ginny knew whose business Draco was actually here on. Her eyes narrowed, but there was no way she could possibly argue with that. "Now, why don't you tell me why you picked _this_ lecture out of all of the others?"

So Ginny's blithe mask wasn't fooling him after all. He could probably _sense_ that she was on the very edge of breaking into a sweat, and that just sitting in this room, knowing what was to come, was going to give her nightmares for the next few nights. His eyes drilled into hers in silent challenge. Neither was going to back down.

"I'm curious to see how magical diaries can _benefit_ a child's troubled mind," Ginny said at her blandest, but she knew that Draco saw right past that as well.

Draco's hand gripped her wrist, forcing her attention on him alone. "Leave. You don't have to deal with this—you shouldn't have to deal with this. You're falling apart! Go on. There's still time." Draco released her wrist and pointed at an extremely fancy, Muggle-style watch. "You've got a full minute to get out of her—you don't really want to sit through this, do you?" His voice was pleading, for her sake.

"How do you know…about that?" Ginny asked in a whisper. None of the Ravenclaws had decided to take this class, so she really didn't need to worry about whispering. Still, old habits died hard. Nobody ever talked about what had been deemed "The Incident" and if discussing The Incident was vital, it was done in the barest of whispers. Just the fact that she had succumbed to something so unspeakable made Ginny's cheeks heat with shame.

Draco faced forward, obviously realizing that Ginny was not going to acquiesce to his wishes. His look was disturbed. "My father gave you that diary, Ginny. I know everything that goes on within the Manor's walls—I have since I was eight. Even the walls have ears at Malfoy Manor."

Below them, the lecturer cleared his throat and introduced himself as Thomas Wydell, a wizard from the Salem Academy of Magic. Just the name made Ginny freeze up, and Meg put a hand on her arm questioningly. "Are you okay, Gin?" she whispered, brown eyes wide. "You're tensed up."

"Yeah, sorry, I'm fine." Ginny forced herself to relax, or at least to appear relaxed. But she just tensed up again when Wydell held up a small black book, remarkably similar to the one that had taken her captive five years before. With a worried look, however, Meg was forced to leave her identical friend to her own devices. This was the lecture she had chosen to take notes and write a report on for her Magical Objects class that started up in September. Paying attention was crucial to her grade.

"How many of you in here keep a diary?" Thomas Wydell asked the entire class. Ginny was surprised to see that Draco's hand went up with her own. He gave her an encouraging smirk as Wydell began to speak. "Diaries are found to soothe the soul and to ease a worried mind. Recently, there's been an uprising of a belief that enchanted diaries might be able to help those students who have had difficulty breaking into the magical world, or have just been having troubles at home."

Wydell spoke in a slightly enunciated voice, making sure that everybody in the room could hear him before going on. "Most of these diaries attempts have been outlawed, unfortunately, offsetting wizards on this project quite a bit. The fact remains that there have been enchanted books of all types for hundreds of years, and we could finally start using some to our own good."

Ginny took notes rather sparingly, for the first ten minutes of Wydell's lecture were spent on convincing the audience that despite all of the restrictions and dangers placed on the making and producing of enchanted diaries, they were better overall than any memory charm could be. While Ginny agreed that memory charms were not the best way to go about doing things in some of the cases Wydell mentioned, she would never agree with the intentional use of an enchanted diary.

Due to wizarding law in America, Wydell was not allowed to give them instructions on how to create an enchanted diary, something for which Ginny felt eternally grateful. Nobody needed information like that, ever. He instead explained how the diaries worked, with the personality or essence inside responding to the child's fears or questions with friendly overtures. Just the thought made Ginny's stomach lurch unpleasantly.

"So what are the cons of enchanted diaries?" a skeptical voice from the back row called. "And I do mean _all_ enchanted diaries, not just the ones this organization has been trying make to use on the less fortunate."

Ginny perked up at this; this was the part of the lecture she was waiting for. Beside her, she could feel Draco roll his eyes as he doodled on the blank page of her notebook. For a child from a pureblooded family, he seemed to be awfully familiar with a Muggle pen. She could see an amusing, mean caricature of Wydell beginning to take shape under Draco's dictation.

"Well," Wydell looked at his audience and licked his lips, "there have only been a few recorded cases of actual enchanted diaries. Most of our knowledge on these are theoretical, and pretty imprecise." He winced, and continued, "We _do_ know, however, that some of these had full personalities stored inside, and the rest just had essences of people. The kind of diary my organization is striving to create would only contain the essence of a counselor, who would be able to advise the child. All kept within the diary would be confidential to the child." Wydell paused here; Ginny saw nervousness blossom on his forehead. "With a full personality in a diary, the diary is usually much more effective, but our organization feels that it would be unwise to create such a thing."

Feeling amazingly bold, Ginny raised a hand. "What about possession?" she called out, face flushed from fury about the garbage this wastrel was trying to sell them. "Never trust an object if you can't see where it keeps its brain. Wouldn't a full personality inside a diary be able to _possess _the child so foolishly entrusting his life to it? I've…heard…of cases of this happening!"

Wydell started wringing his hands rather nervously at Ginny's accusation. "Really," he snapped, glaring at her for her impertinence. "This is a lecture, not a question and answer session. If you all would kindly stop interrupting—"

Draco raised himself half out of his seat and clapped loudly, drawing attention to him. Wydell glared warily, unsure as to what exactly Draco was going on about. "Good job. A most wonderful trick of avoiding the question." His eyes narrowed dangerously, and Ginny decided that she never wanted to be on the receiving end of that look. "I feel it essential to remind you that this is everything one needs to know about magical diaries, so why don't you tell the class what happens when a Dark Wizard gets his hands on the ability to create these accursed books?" 

He paused, gray eyes glittering, and stood so that he was facing the entire class. Meg and Ginny swapped looks, each as confused as the other as to what he was actually doing. "I've seen it happen all the time in my studies of Dark Wizards. They'll enchant one of these diaries and plant it in some unsuspecting child's vicinity. That child unthinkingly begins to write and becomes trapped in that Dark Wizard's powers. _Voila_, the Dark Wizard can then use that child to do terrible things—attempt murder, use unnatural powers, you name it."

He had the entire audience's fascination now, even though Wydell was glaring bolts into the back of his head and shaking his own head furiously. Draco paused, looking over the eyes all focused on him. "Soon, the wizard will drain that child of his or her energy, using it to become a manifestation of reality. The memory that the wizard placed in the diary will become real, possibly bringing on an apocalypse or something of a much smaller scale. The only way to get rid of the wizard at that stage is to destroy the diary, which is incredibly difficult. Unfortunately, this will leave a scarred child with too much power, possible psychosis, and a variety of other symptoms." He paused to let his words sink in. "Sometimes, this can prove fatal."

Now gray eyes whipped around and focused on Wydell in the most accusatory manner. "So why even bother creating these things? Something could slip up—it'd be like releasing a thousand little Dark Lords everywhere. Are these things really worth that price?" 

"Well, good way to keep from standing out," Ginny hissed to Draco as the room exploded into pandemonium over his speech. Many people were screeching wildly for Wydell to go back wherever he came from, and several arguments had already broken out among different crowds. Apparently, there were quite a few people that were still for the idea of using enchanted diaries, despite what Draco had just said. "We'd be _careful_!" Ginny heard above the din.

Meg, meanwhile, was staring mournfully at the half-filled sheet of paper in front of her. "There goes my Magical Objects grade," she said sadly, and closed the notebook. "And to think, I attended this seminar for this one lecture, and it all turned out to be a fraud. He was just promoting some radical group that'll die in a few months anyway."

Ginny gave her new friend a sympathetic smile. "Cheer up. As Draco here proved, he knows _quite a bit_ about magical diaries. I'm sure he could fill you in enough for you to ace your report." She shot Draco a look that clearly stated that a talk was in order, but when she turned back to Meg, the smile was back on her face. "In fact, I can offer some important details. I've had kind of a first-hand experience with them, if you will."

Immediately, Draco's hand found its way to her shoulder. "Ginny, I don't think you should tell anybody about that," he warned in a soft voice. "I mean, you don't know who…"

"I can trust Meg and Liz," Ginny put in so staunchly that Draco couldn't object. "Now, let's go wait for Liz. We've got a couple of hours to relax before the next set of lectures begin." The three of them made their way out of the chaotic room and past Wydell without much trouble. Ginny snorted once at the sign on the door, in much better spirits than she had been in earlier, and tucked her hands in the pockets of her jeans as she walked. "Meg attends St. Lawrence's all year around," she told Draco.

"So it's an actual school?" Draco asked with open curiosity. It was unbearably hot in the labyrinth of corridors, but he did not seem to mind. "You attend classes here and everything?" He looked around at the carvings on the wall with something akin to awe. It was rather like Draco to like a building like this, with its dark passageways and old-fashioned rooms, Ginny mused to herself while Meg told Draco all about the St. Lawrence's school system. There were carvings embossed in gold all over the tops of the walls—carvings of dragons, and gargoyles, and everything dark. The desks inside the actual classrooms were terribly uncomfortable desks with feet like the old bathtubs in the halls. Never had she seen such a dark building, and Hogwarts was a _castle_. Castles, by default, were dark, imposing sorts of buildings.

St. Lawrence's made Hogwarts look like it had been painted yellow.

They did not have long to wait for Liz outside of Ewan Roulter's lecture hall. "The follow-up wasn't too long," she told Meg and Ginny. "Just a few things he missed during the actual lecture earlier, and some more on the makeup of the actual Patronus. I've transcribed my notes for the pair of you." She handed over two sheets of notebook paper to each girl and turned on Draco, one eyebrow lifted. "I haven't seen you around, which is surprising, given your height and your hair. I'm Elizabeth Abends—but just call me Liz."

Draco took Liz's deductions in stride and smiled. "I'm hard to miss, that's for sure. Draco Malfoy." He shook the proffered hand and gave her another hesitant smile. "I attend school with Ginny here, and you haven't seen me at all because I've spent the entire week lazing about and being a nuisance to everybody at my manor." His smile was now charming; Ginny rolled her eyes behind his back. This alone caused Liz to grin.

If Ginny had wondered how Draco would take to her new friends, she should not have worried. Draco, when apart from the typecast role Hogwarts had set for him, was a charming person, joking and talking easily with Ginny's new friends. He and Meg even got into a debate about the differences between American and European magical school systems. The serious air about him had appeared to vanish, but Ginny knew that the second Liz and Meg were gone, Draco would round on her. There were still a lot of things the pair of them needed to discuss. 

Because they had a few hours to kill before they had to be at a new set of lectures, they ended up heading down the street from St. Lawrence's to buy drinks at one of the "convenience stores" St. Louis streets hosted. Draco and Ginny got into a brief argument about who would pay for their drinks, much to Meg's amusement. She and Liz sniggered safely from the sidelines as Draco won and slapped a five-dollar bill onto the counter. The Indian man behind the desk gave them a very brown grin as he handed Draco the change.

"Her temper's famous at our school," Draco told Liz and Meg in a conspirator's whisper, grinning as Ginny rolled her eyes. "The Weasley temper, they call it there. Usually, you can catch the warning signs. First, their ears turn red, and then the back of their necks, and then their cheeks. If you've got a fully red Weasley, it's time to duck and cover." Ginny's ears turned red, much to the delight of all of her friends.

Luckily, the rest of the group was distracted by a shrill warble.

A phoenix, above all things, dropped onto Draco's shoulder and pecked against the top of his silvery blond head. "_Fawkes_?" Ginny demanded, staring hard at the bird. She blinked, but Fawkes neither wavered nor disappeared.

"Well, if this isn't conspicuous, I don't know what is," Draco muttered, shaking his shoulder. Fawkes, however, had other plans in mind, and yodeled a string of notes at the group, his grip firmly lodged into Draco's shirt. "I think he wants us to get him out of broad daylight, Gin." The phoenix bobbed his head in affirmation.

"You think?" Ginny demanded sarcastically. Passersby were turned their heads to stare at the bright wonder that was Fawkes; in headache-inducing sunlight, his plumage was even brighter. He was also a bit more noticeable when not ensconced in Professor Dumbledore's office.

"It's a puppet!" Liz called to a crowd of tourists, her eyes darting between the phoenix. "We're rehearsing for a show—go see us at the Fox sometime!" Ginny did not think about asking her what exactly 'the Fox' was; she was too busy pushing Draco into an alleyway in between buildings. Immediately, Meg sprang up to guard the entrance to the alleyway, glaring at anybody who came too close.

"This is Dumbledore's phoenix," Draco muttered to Ginny, turning his head away from Fawkes to do so. The phoenix pecked him on the head, and he winced, sending Fawkes a one-eyed glare in return. "What is Dumbledore's phoenix doing in America, and on my shoulder, of all places?"

Ginny frowned and moved around Draco so that she could get a better view of Fawkes's talons. "Wait. I think Dumbledore's sent us something." Cooing at the phoenix, she carefully pried a pair of message tubes from resisting talons. Either Fawkes did not like her, or he was annoyed at Draco's antics. "Yes, they're addressed to us." She pushed one into Draco's hand and unobtrusively slipped the other into her pocket.

"So why would this Dumbledore character send you messages—via phoenix?" Liz asked, staring in wonder at Fawkes. As though the phoenix knew that he was being watched, he preened and chirped charmingly at her. She reached up one hand to stroke the side of his head.

"Professor Dumbledore is the headmaster at Hogwarts," Ginny explained. "I guess that since we're at the seminar, he's interested in getting opinions and other things from us." She knew just as well as Draco did that Fawkes carried orders from the elusive Order of Phoenix. "I'm surprised that it took him this long to get in contact with us at all."

Liz shook her head and moved an accusing gaze onto Ginny's face. "So, let me get this straight. You've seen a Patronus, your headmaster sends you messages with his pet _phoenix_, and you're not dating this gorgeously hot boy, _why_?"

As Ginny stumbled about for words, Draco felt the need to step in. Dodging another peck from Fawkes, he explained, "Well, if it helps anything…I've been _attacked_ by a Patronus, our headmaster generally sends us messages by owl—he only uses the phoenix for top-secret missions—and we're not dating because my father wouldn't hesitate to kill her. In fact, he's already tried." He looked brightly from one stunned face to another. "So…any questions?"

His only answer was a warble from Fawkes.

~ - ~ - ` - ~ - ~

Well, you've survived yet another chapter of Deeper Than Blood! Geez, congratulations—I don't even know how _I_ survived it! If you would be so kind as to leave a review if anything confused you, or if you just didn't like anything, etc. that'd be wonderful.

Oh, yeah, the setting for this chapter was in St. Louis, Missouri, nearby where I'm from. I've included some links in my AN, Part II, that may be helpful in describing some of the places talked about by Liz, or visited by Ginny and Draco. St. Lawrence's Academy for the Magically Competent (known beforehand as St. Lawrence's Summer Academy) was something I made up, sorry.

The Fox Theater - http://www.fabulousfox.com/

__

"It's a puppet!" Liz called to a crowd of tourists, her eyes darting between the phoenix. "We're rehearsing for a show—go see us at the Fox sometime!" Ginny did not think about asking her what exactly 'the Fox' was; she was too busy pushing Draco into an alleyway in between buildings…

The Arch - http://www.stlouisarch.com/

__

Ginny had never seen such a magnificent or monstrously huge sight. They were standing at the base of perhaps the most unique piece of architecture she had ever laid eyes on. It was the size of a very large house at the base and gradually thinned out, arcing up and over to slowly drop to another house-sized base…

If you're ever in St. Louis, both are marvelously grand places to go—especially the Fox! It's my absolute favorite place in the city!


	6. Damnable Comity

Disclaimer: If you think all of this really belongs to me, you've got some seriously bad problems. This is all JKR's, the goddess that she is. June 21st, everybody! Thank you, JKR!

Excuses: A couple of people have been surprised by the fact that St. Louis is in this fanfic. I will openly admit that this was guilty pleasure—every time I go anywhere, I have to pass the St. Louis Arch, and I'm forever wondering what would happen if it was a portal to another dimension. So naturally, it found its way into one of my Harry Potter fics. Anybody surprised? You really shouldn't be…*grin* By the way, this is the unbeta'd copy. I'll upload the beta'd copy later…

Oh, yeah, and there's a _Majestic_ line in here. Kudos to the person that can spot it.

__

Well, I know there's a reason to change

Yeah, and I know there's a time for us

I think about the good things

But you live with all the bad

You can feel it in the air

Feeling right this time of year

- "This Time of Year" by _Better Than Ezra_

****

Damnable Comity

Chapter Five

Ginny lay stomach-down on her bed, chin propped up on her elbows as she pondered what to write next. An unrolled parchment lay in front of her with only the salutations written as of yet. "Why is writing letters always so hard?" she asked Liz Abends, who was sitting at her desk, going over her notes with something called a highlighter. Meg Detooki was on the other bed, which belonged to Ginny's roommate Mandy Brocklehurst.

Meg shrugged. "I never really had a problem with them," she commented, looking up from her own notes. "You write down a greeting, tell them you're having a wonderful time, mention a couple of things that you learned, ask them how they are, and tell them that you can't wait to see them. Simple, really." She flicked a strand of red out of her eyes and scratched something out of her notes.

Liz looked over at Ginny, amusement written on her tanned features. "Did you take notes on that lecture?" she queried innocently, and ducked the pillow that Meg threw at her head. She stuck her tongue out at Meg and threw the pillow back, but Meg did not find it within herself to retaliate. The three settled into an easy silence as each worked on her own project.

After staring at the parchment for a few minutes, Ginny wondered if she should mention that this wasn't an ordinary letter. This was an answer to the orders given her by "Bumblebee" or Albus Dumbledore. Ginny had been a member of the Order of Phoenix, a society formed with the purpose of defeating Voldemort, since she was fourteen. It seemed that Tiamat, her code name, was used more than her first name. Why Fawkes had chosen to name her after the Babylonian mythological dragon that had supposedly created the universe, she was not entirely certain.

Fawkes, and only Fawkes knew why he did what he did.

"_Bumblebee,_" Ginny finally forced herself to write. "_Greetings! Yes, the American sunshine is wonderful—I can already feel the most delightful sunburn coming on!_" She smiled at her sarcasm. "_Both Jormungand and I have received your messages. I dare say that you really need to talk to that phoenix of yours! He landed on Jormungand's shoulder—right in the middle of a busy street. We spent ages telling everybody that he was just a puppet, and if you receive any invitations to see a puppet show at 'the Fabulous Fox,' don't be too surprised._"

Professor Dumbledore had written to tell her of Draco's new position within the Order of Phoenix. She was one of only four that knew his true motives within Voldemort's ranks. For once, it made her feel included in something important.

"_In answer to your questions, I have been learning a great many things at this summer academy. The lectures here are fascinating, and the people are wonderful. I'll be sure to pick up some of the candies I've seen around here for you. Yours truly, Tiamat._" Ginny signed her code name with a flourish and capped her pen, enjoying the rather novel feeling of not having to cap the ink bottle, or let the quill drip-dry. These Muggle pens were so much easier to use than quills!

Ginny folded the parchment carefully, glad that she did not have to wait for the ink to dry. She then placed it rather innocuously against her hand, where her signet ring could be seen on her smallest finger. With that in her pocket, she turned to the other letters she had picked up from the mailbox outside her dorm room. Because owls could not maintain the long flight overseas, the letters were sent over a very complicated Floo Network and then delivered by a series of carriers through the portals linked about the United States. Liz, the resident expert on the differences between European and American customs, had explained all about the couriers and other things Americans used. She and Meg had been absolutely astounded that European wizards still used owls.

"That's so quaint!" Meg had exclaimed with a laugh.

There was a short letter in Ron's untidy scrawl attached to yet another letter from home (Ginny had so far received five such letters), a letter in Hermione's neat print (she squealed and saved that letter for last, because Hermione's letters were always long), and, surprisingly, a letter in tiny, neat script that she barely recognised as Harry's. This brought a contemplative frown to her face; why would Harry, of all people, send her a letter?

"What's the catch?" Liz asked, looking up from her binder to see the return addresses. "Hermione Granger? Who's that? Harry—Harry _Potter_? Harry Potter wrote you a letter? You _know_ Harry Potter?"

Even Meg looked up curiously as Ginny rolled her eyes. "Yeah, we're friends—sort of," she replied. "He's my older brother's best friend, and he's a bit thick when it comes to the female gender. Is he popular in America, too?" She had avoided mentioning Harry in any conversations with Meg and Liz. This was, after all, her vacation. She didn't want to think of why she was angry at her brother and his rather pigheaded best friend. Hermione had tried to explain why they were acting like they were before she had left Ottery St. Catchpole, but it hadn't tided over well. Ginny was still hurt that they could be so callused.

Because Liz was the type of person who thought about what to say before she said anything at all, it took her a minute to answer. "We know of him, so we get excited whenever he's mentioned because it's something we recognise. Do you know what I'm saying?"

Ginny did, actually. It was, she believed, why her insane crush on Harry had started in the first place. "Yeah. Well, don't get your hopes up too high. He's not the noble hero all of those books say he is. He's just another guy, trying to figure things out. And he doesn't want the fame at all." She dropped her head to end the conversation and did not see the look that passed between Meg and Liz. They both had eyebrows lifted, wondering what exactly Ginny had against Harry Potter.

*

__

For a long moment as he sat at his desk, Draco did nothing but stare at the tube Fawkes had delivered to him. It was lightweight, but that did not necessarily mean that it was merely parchment. In fact, Draco highly doubted it was. Professor Dumbledore had more tricks up his sleeve than he had years. As he turned the tube over in his hands, it struck Draco how similar and how very strikingly different it was to the orders Lord Voldemort had sent him. The parchment containing the names of the people he was supposed to be in contact with on Lord Voldemort's behalf was burning a hole in his pocket, but he ignored this. Slim fingers broke a purple seal stamped with the mark of a phoenix's feather.

There was no salutation; Dumbledore just plunged directly into the body of the letter.

__

I hope Fawkes finds you in good condition and sound health. I fear that it was necessary for Fawkes to aid in delivering the letter—just this morning, my informant filled me in about your late acceptance into St. Lawrence's Summer Academy. Unfortunately, an owl can not cover such a great distance so quickly, and the messages Fawkes brings to both you and your companion (her Order name will be disclosed later on in this letter) are quite important. I have advised Fawkes not to approach you in mixed company, but he has a mind of his own.

Draco paused in reading the letter to look up at Fawkes, who was perched on the back of his desk chair. The phoenix had been intent on ignoring him for the length of the afternoon, although he had refused to leave Draco's presence. It was an exasperated Draco that bade farewell to Ginny and her friends (such odd people, even though Draco found them to be nice), and headed alone to Trenton Hall, stopping every few feet to assure Muggles that the bird on his shoulder was a puppet. Thankfully, Fawkes had held still enough, otherwise Draco really would have had some explaining to do.

_Firstly, I would like to thank you for joining the Order of Phoenix. Somebody will be in contact with you soon to discuss what exactly the Order of Phoenix is, for it is not wise to write such a thing on paper. I dare say that Tiamat will have something to say. Papers can always be read, Mr. Malfoy, but minds cannot. Perhaps the greatest magic we have is the magic of our minds._

Secondly, and on a more personal note, I have included several things with this message that I feel would be beneficial to your knowledge. Unlike some of your professors, I am not selectively blind to the situation at your home. Your position is a tough one to be in, and every operative needs an escape route. These are guarded with spells to make them appear like average potions textbooks, but do not be fooled by the titles. I assure you that each of these books is of great importance.

Fawkes has selected your operative name to be "Jormungand." Perhaps you will do some reading up on this mythological serpent; the tale is quite a fascinating read. Severus assures me that it is also ironic pertaining to the role you will be forced to play in Voldemort's circle. Also ironically, your companion goes by Tiamat within the order circles.

Draco frowned; even Professor Snape knew more about his situation than he did. The whole thing was going to drive him mad, he was positive. The dreams that were really memories, his father's sudden lack of interest in the proceedings of his only son, Voldemort's cryptic orders, and now Dumbledore's hinting at grandeur. He was going to be a lunatic by the time he left St. Lawrence's.

_Keep your eyes open and your back clear, Jormungand. May good luck bless your footsteps._

Fondest Regards,

Bumblebee

PS – With the materials sent to you regarding an escape route, you will also find a ring. This is charmed to be inconspicuous, and only messages sealed with that ring will be accepted by the Order.

PPS – Good luck at St. Lawrence's.

Draco was not surprised to see that Professor Dumbledore's parchment crumbled to dust the instant he had read the last word. In the parchment's place, however, a pile of three books sprang up—and something shiny shot straight at his head. One fist darted up and captured a spinning ring, bringing it close to his eyes to examine it. 

His signet seal was a rather ornate dragon's claw, clutching what looked to be two peace lilies. This caused his mouth to twist into a sardonic smirk. Narcissa kept a vase of these inside of her personal bathroom, where Lucius would never find them.

Since he had his headmaster's assurances that the ring was safe, Draco slipped this easily onto the ring finger of his right hand, where he had always imagined signet rings would go. He turned his fascination onto the books Professor Dumbledore had included. How could books provide him with an escape? Were they portkeys? For a moment, Draco eyed them, debating on whether or not Albus Dumbledore would drop to such a level of trickery. He decided that transporting an unsuspecting student off to some foreign place was just not something Professor Dumbledore would do, and drew the first book closer to him. His body stayed in the desk chair, thankfully.

"'Potions For Everyday Life,'" he read aloud, eyebrows arching up.

Fawkes's affirming trill made him jump, and Draco glared for a moment before thumbing the book open. Inside, he found, to his utmost surprise—"_Math problems_?" Draco blinked, but the equations did not go away. Instead, they lay there, trigonometry mixed with algebra and geometry and all of the confusing math-related names. "Why on earth would Dumbledore send me a book of Muggle math problems?" Draco wondered aloud, and pushed the book away from him. He reached for a second one and read, "'Potions For Everyday Life, II.'"

Luckily, there were no math problems in this book. However, Draco had to blink several times before he would believe that his eyes were really reading, "'Collected Works of William Shakespeare.'"

He had read some Shakespearean writing before—every wizard or witch had. Shakespeare was as Muggle as they came, but his works had such a hold on the language used by Muggles and wizards alike that at least one of his plays was included in the wizarding schools below Hogwarts. Draco had been rather impartial to the superfluous sonnets and prose presented him in his old schoolbooks, but now he found himself curious as to what Shakespeare actually had to say. Had Professor Dumbledore actually sent him clues through each of the books? Did he need to work out the problems in the math book to help him understand? Were there little hints buried in the Shakespearean sentences? Deep in speculation, Draco reached for the third book and flipped that open.

This contained neither plays nor math equations. Draco frowned at the first page, which was utterly blank. Not even an inkblot marred the white surface. He thumbed through, but the entire book was empty.

Fawkes pecked him on the shoulder twice, earning a "Hey, you filthy bird, stop that!" and a nasty look from Draco. The phoenix was not swayed, however, and hopped onto Draco's shoulder, his long neck leaning down along Draco's forearm. Ignoring the look Draco was shooting at him, Fawkes swooped down and plucked up Draco's "Head Boy" pen in his long beak. He dropped this into Draco's hand and pecked the book once. Even a dimwit like Potter would have guessed what Fawkes wanted him to do. "You'd better be right about this," Draco warned, and touched the tip to the paper.

At first, nothing happened.

Draco was in the process of bestowing Fawkes with a triumphant look when plain script appeared along the centre of the page. "Code name, please."

Fawkes bobbed his head, and Draco swore that the phoenix was laughing at him. Inwardly, he grumbled; why couldn't Professor Dumbledore have sent a much nicer, less smug animal? Perhaps a friendly gofer, or maybe a dove. Not a temperamental, opinionated phoenix, anyway.

On the page, he wrote, "Jormungand." The word was still unfamiliar, and he hoped that he hadn't bungled up the spelling.

Another pause, this time slightly longer as though the book were double-checking to make sure that Jormungand was really a code name, and then, "Seal, please."

Lifting an eyebrow at the bird on his shoulder, Draco twisted his signet ring so that the seal was facing his palm, and pressed his hand flat against the paper. The page lit up with a blue colour for the briefest of moments, and then plain script rolled easily across the surface. "Thank you, Jormungand. You are now permitted to use this book—to your discretion. Everything you need for your escape, you will find either in here, or the other two books presented you. Be nice to Fawkes, for I have requested that he stay with you for the entire week you are at St. Lawrence's. Thanks again—Bumblebee."

_You've got to be kidding me!_ Draco's mind protested as he read and reread the script before him. He stared at Fawkes, who seemed to give him the phoenix version of a smug grin. _There is no way that I am spending a week around this—this _bird_!_

Fawkes gave him a smug chirp and pecked the book once again. 

Resigned to his fate, Draco turned the page. His look turned to bewilderment when he realised that this wasn't actually a book as it had been moments before. No, instead it was merely a shell containing a myriad of different papers. He picked up the first paper and brought it closer to his eyes. 

It was some kind of plastic card, with the words "Illinois Driver's License" written at the top. The rest of the card seemed to have information concerned a Theodore Marcus Windsor. There was a square box to one side that read "Picture to be added later." Wondering if this was anything related to an Apparition license, Draco set it aside and moved through the papers. He picked up a card reading "Mastercard," and examined it before pushing it away, puzzled. There seemed to be a birth certificate, hunting license, High School Diploma, and various other objects, all for this Theodore Windsor fellow. There was even a manual on how to drive an automobile. Draco thumbed through the bank paperwork and discovered through the statements that this Windsor fellow was a pretty well off guy.

It was only when he picked up a letter with a heading reading "Notre Dame University," that he realised that Professor Dumbledore had actually set up a second identity for him as Theodore Windsor. An American Muggle—what an ingenious idea! While Draco didn't actually favour the idea of becoming a Muggle (an American one, nonetheless), this would be the last place Voldemort or his father would search for him.

Once he had gone through the entire "book," Draco painstakingly replaced everything in the order he had found it in. Fawkes warbled his approval. Draco carefully shut the cover on all of the papers. Immediately, the blank page he had seen earlier reappeared. Except now it wasn't blank. The plain script now read, "I hope you found everything you needed to see, Jormungand. Please remember that you aren't alone in your quests. Sometimes friends are all that we need."

The text disappeared, leaving Draco to a whirlwind of confusing thoughts. He did not have long to muse over all that he had learned, however, for there was a knock on the door. Fawkes let out a squawk as Draco stood up, but he ignored the bird and crossed to the door, unthinkingly leaving his wand on the desk.

*

_Ginny—_

Sorry I don't have long to write. The Dursleys have been making me do menial work all summer, and it's pretty boring. But at least it passes the time.

I've put a lot of thought into some of the things I said to you at the end of the semester. Hey, I admit it. I was a prat. A complete, utter, royal prat. A git, even. Sometimes I forget that you're fifteen—nearly sixteen—and that I'm not really your brother. I just wanted to write you and say I'm sorry. Can we be friends again? Even if…

Here, Harry crossed something out rather vigorously. Ginny stared at the parchment, half-tempted to do a revealing charm on it, but decided that she really didn't want to know what he was saying anyway. It might just open a whole new avenue of pain. Let Harry keep his own secrets—the trio was certainly good at that.

_Anyway, I just wanted to apologise. I would have much rather done this in person, but I'm not seventeen yet, and it doesn't look I'll be making it to the Burrow for at least another month and a half._

So, what do you say? Friends?

Write back—I have to go prune the roses.

Harry

A bit puzzled, Ginny pushed that letter to the side. Harry Potter finally realising his mistakes and begging her for forgiveness? She never would have thought that could happen. At times, it seemed like Harry was completely oblivious to the fact that she was something more than Ron Weasley's little sister. She turned to the next letter—Ron's—with a frown on her face.

_Hey, Ginny!_

I hope you're having a great time in St. Whatsits! (Sorry, I can't ever remember that name. St. Lingo's? St. Lorelei's?)

Dad's got tickets to the next Chudley Cannons game in two weeks! Can you believe it?! Charlie's coming home to take us, cos Dad's got to work. But it's gonna be me, you, and Charlie! And the Cannons actually won _a game the other day!!!! Stop laughing—which I know you are at the moment—and celebrate with me! And Dad says that he got some pretty good tickets, either way! Isn't it great having a dad in the Ministry?_

Write back, okay?

Love,

Ron

Ron's clueless ability to make life revolve around nothing but the Chudley Cannons was quite a change from the scholarly air of St. Lawrence's. She was just glad that she had not been home when the Cannons had won—Ron was going to be hard enough to deal with as it was. Still, his enthusiasm might be a welcome change from the past summers, when he did nothing but sit around and mope about Hermione and worry about Harry. Ginny placed that letter on top of Harry's and turned to the letter from her mum.

_Ginny, dear!_

How are you? How is St. Lawrence's? Next summer, you really will have to pick an academy that's much closer. The United States are so terribly far away, and you know how I worry about all you children!

Oh, I should stop that. You're not much of a child anymore, are you? I always forget that you're sixteen now—it seems only yesterday you and Ron were toddlers…

Rolling her eyes like a normal sixteen-year-old girl, Ginny skimmed down the page until Molly stopped reminiscing about how cute she and Ron had looked as babies. Her family had a problem with eyesight, she was sure; none of them seemed to realise that she had indeed hit puberty, that she had indeed made her way up the Hogwarts scale, and that she really had grown up in more ways than one. Ginny was convinced that she would be forty before Ron would stop beating off guys that so much as even looked at her in the hallways. At least Fred and George had a sense of humour about it—Ron could be downright mean about it.

_You'll never believe it—Bill and Charlie came here for dinner last night, just to catch up. With Ron always out on Order business (I swear, I'm going to have to _talk_ to Professor Dumbledore about letting him get his Apparation license early), and Percy having his own flat, there's not really any need to cook any more big dinners. But both were here last night, and pass on their well-wishes. Charlie's about to head off to Romania for a few days, but he'll be back in time for that match Ron's always talking about._

Bill says that you're welcome to stay at his flat in London when you get back in from St. Lawrence's. Just for a couple of days, mind you, because America is so terribly far away. I miss having my baby girl around the house!

Percy's got all the paperwork finalised on the new flat, so we've seen even less of him, if you can believe that's possible. He passes on his love, and hopes that you're learning a lot about proper things at St. Lawrence's. To be quite honest, I think he's jealous, dear. Still, he would never have time for a thing like St. Lawrence's. I sometimes wonder how he makes any time for Penelope at all!

The twins pass on their love as well. They wanted to send you some of their pranks to try on some of your American friends, but I downright refused to let them. They're being awfully secretive about something lately and never home anymore. Sales at the shop are going well, Fred says. He wonders if you'll be able to help out later this summer?

Ginny had been pegged into helping out at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes in their little shop outside of Knockturn Alley. She had managed to walk away from that incident with a lot fortunately than Ron had, because her own hair turned from blue only two days after. Ron had walked around for the first month of Hogwarts, waiting for the blue hair dye to grow out.

_Either way, that's the update on the family dealings. Bill and Charlie seem unwilling to tell me about their girlfriends, so I can't really fill you in on that at all. Fred is still seeing that Angelina Johnson—what a nice girl. She was just around the house the other day, and we had afternoon tea with Penelope. Such fine young women your brothers have picked! I'm almost afraid that there's no hope for George._

Molly had never been more wrong, Ginny smiled to herself as she skimmed down over the details about afternoon tea with her future sisters-in-law. She'd just received post from George the other day, filling her in quite secretly about his own relationship with a girl he'd just run into one day at Diagon Alley. Although Ginny was quite curious to see who this mystery girl was, George refused point-blank to say.

_ I do hope they're feeding you properly at St. Lawrence's. All of that rumour about American junk food has me worried. Be sure to remember to eat your vegetables, and don't do anything you wouldn't want to tell me about. Have fun, and pay attention in your lectures! And do write back!_

Love,

Mum

Ginny pushed that letter away, smiling as she opened the package that had accompanied it. "Mum's sent cookies," she told Meg and Liz. "And my brothers are all still alive, would you believe it?"

Meg looked up from her project, her interest piqued. "You never did say if they were cute," she observed, and snatched one of the cookies from Ginny. The beds were close enough together that she only had to roll over once to reach the tin Ginny held out to her.

From the desk, Liz laughed and plucked up a couple of cookies. "Meg, let me ask you: is _your_ brother cute?" She had evidently abandoned highlighting her notes, for there was no highlighter in sight and there were notes in all of the margins that hadn't been there before.

"Yuck, no!" Meg said, screwing her face up. "He's my _brother—_I'm not supposed to think about him like that!" She looked scandalously disgusted, which only made Ginny muffle her snickers with the back of her hand.

"No further questions, your Honour," Liz said to the imaginary judge sitting in the corner of Ginny's room. While this phrase had thrown Ginny the first time Liz had used it, Meg had explained that in the American Wizardry Courts, this was used to signal the end of an interrogation. It was also Liz's favourite phrase, so Ginny always imagined that there was a silent judge that she was talking to.

Seeing Meg's somewhat disappointed look, Ginny offered, "I've pictures of them, if you wish to see…" Very shortly, she found herself digging through her suitcase for the photo album Molly had insisted she bring. One of the benefits of inviting Colin to one of her family dinners had been all of the pictures of her brothers that he'd sent back. Of course, Colin had known better than send pictures of Ginny if he wanted to keep them from suffering the fate of spontaneous combustion. He had sent those directly to Molly, much to Ginny's displeasure.

Because Ginny very rarely threw things away, the album had been enlarged over the years to hold a variety of things, most of them pictures of the Weasley family and home. Ginny flipped through the pages of her grandparents and other Weasley generations, finally landing on the pages of her brothers' biggest achievements. The first was seventeen-year-old, gawky Bill standing on the platform of King's Cross only hours after leaving Hogwarts as a newly qualified wizard. He had one arm around Charlie and the other around Molly, and was waving at the person behind the camera, probably Arthur. Meg "ooohed" and flipped the page. "Bit of a geek, wasn't he?" Liz asked over her head, smiling at Ginny.

"Head Boy. Wait until you see the most recent picture of him, though," Ginny promised, her grin conniving.

Meg quickly made her way through the black-and-white photographs on that page, with comments thrown in by Liz occasionally. They both paused to stare at the latest picture of Bill, hardly believing that he was the "geek." On the next page was the photo Colin had taken of the trio, and Ginny frowned at it now, remembering that she had yet to read Hermione's letter. "So you not only get letters from the famous Harry Potter, but you have a picture of him in your _family_ photo album?" Liz demanded.

"Well, if you consider that he's kind of like a seventh brother, you wouldn't be that surprised," Ginny pointed out. She slid the book in Meg's direction. "Here, have a ball. I've got a letter I still need to read from Hermione—she's the girl in that picture."

_Ginny! Hey!_

How are things in America? Things in Romania are wonderful_, so fascinating! I've already completed my summer course-work despite everything Professor Lupin has been teaching me. I hope Professor McGonagall won't mind that I threw in another roll on some of the advanced Transfiguration all of the fellows in Romania have been teaching me here! It's just so _intriguing_._

Despite living in an abandoned warehouse with twenty undercover Ministry workers, a patient of lycanthropy, and who knew how many convicts, Hermione still managed to beat all of them by bundles on her schoolwork. Ginny wordlessly shook her head, smiling at Hermione's diligence for schoolwork.

__

Professor Lupin really is an astounding teacher. He insists that I call him Remus, but old habits die hard, I am afraid. Everyday is a new adventure here, I swear! Just yesterday, Smidley, Remus and I were pulled from our beds to deal with a Kappa problem! And the Red Caps here are absolutely terrible—we spent a whole day just getting rid of those for some very grateful villages. You should meet Smidley sometime. He's easily the funniest man I know, and he's been in this business of working against Dark Creatures for ten years. Every time he gets bitten, he says, "Got another one up on Moody, I do!"

Professor Lupin tells him he's mad—he's striving_ to become more scarred than Professor Moody._

There are only a couple of other women here, but after years of Harry and Ron, I'm fending for myself quite nicely. The food's not really anything to write home about, and sometimes Professor Lupin and I are so busy on the road that we skip meals entirely. I went a day without eating and didn't even notice. Don't tell Ron or Harry. Those two could pack down an antelope between the two of them, and I don't think we'd want to revive them from dead faints when they realise that, yes, _you can go for two whole hours without food._

Boys. Honestly.

"What're you grinning about?" Liz's voice broke through Ginny's concentration. When Ginny gave her a confused look, she explained, "You're grinning like a mad-woman."

Ginny drew a deep breath to let her friends know the situation about Hermione. "One of my brother's friends is in Romania for a month and a half with one of our old professors, studying abroad so that she won't have to go to a Muggle safe-house with her parents. She's just sent me a letter."

Meg had pushed the photo album to the side in favour of working on her essay on enchanted diaries. She had evidently harvested enough from her notes to make a passable swipe at the essay. "Safe-house?" she asked, her eyebrows hunkering low over her brown eyes. "Why would her parents be in a safe-house? She hasn't broken the law, has she?" 

"Voldemort," Ginny said, and jumped as neither of her companions flinched. Voldemort obviously didn't have that big of a stronghold over the United States after all. "She's Muggle-born."

Obviously not sure how to carry such an unwieldy conversation, the three girls fell into a silence and each returned to her own project.

_I'm afraid that I won't have much time to write in the two weeks coming up, for Professor Lupin has been _very_ secretive about something. I'm not quite sure as to what it could be—after all, there are so many possibilities—but everybody's been whispering about vampires. It's quite an exciting topic—we studied them in third-year! Hush, though. I'm not supposed to know about the plans beforehand, for, as Professor Lupin says, "I'm the teacher, and I know all. Now hush-up and be a good little student." Really, he's just teasing._

Professor Lupin had always been Ginny's favourite professor for Defence Against the Dark Arts, which was probably a good thing. In the past year, he had made several visits to the Weasley household while Ron and Ginny were supposed to be in bed. Being the insomniac that she was, Ginny had been awake for quite a few of Remus Lupin's mysterious visits. Any fear that she had of his disease had faded quickly in the earnestness he carried with him. She smiled, imagining talkative, clever Hermione with their laid-back professor.

_You really must write back and tell me all about St. Lawrence's. I'm afraid that Smidley's little dragonlet accidentally scorched the first letter you sent me. Really, he swears that thing is a Komodo Dragon, but I'll bet my last Sickle that it's really a baby dragon in disguise._

Until the next time we see each other, keep yourself safe, all right? No foolish risks!

_Love,_

Hermione

Ginny scowled at the warning against foolish risks, knowing perfectly well to whom exactly Hermione was referring. Really, Hermione was doing her best to watch out for Ginny, as good friends are supposed to do, but sometimes her diplomatic warnings were a bit too much for even calm, placid Ginny.

"Hey, Gin?" Liz asked from the desk, her head still tilted downwards towards her notes. "Can you come help me out? You said you'd seen a Patronus before, and there are some things that just aren't making sense in my essay right now."

Half an hour later found Ginny regaling both of her friends with the tale of how Draco and his friends had sneaked onto the Quidditch pitch in her second year in order to masquerade as Dementors. Liz was frantically taking notes on all of the descriptions Ginny could think of for a proper Patronus, smiling as Ginny was able to reveal a wealth of information. "I've seen three people cast Patroni," Ginny reflected thoughtfully, ticking each caster off of her fingers.

By now, Meg was utterly fascinated as well. When Ginny had finished telling Liz of the time Harry had cast a Patronus at Draco and his friends, Meg jumped into the conversation. "Are we talking about the same Draco?" she asked, somewhere between amazement and amusement. "Prim, proper Draco?"

Ginny's grin turned mischievous. "He wasn't always that way. He used to have a mean streak wider than the English channel. Had it in for my brother and his friends."

As both Meg and Liz expressed disbelief that the gentlemanly Draco they had viewed earlier could be such a nasty kid, it struck Ginny that first impressions really did matter. The students at Hogwarts would have a terribly hard time believing Draco to be anything of a gentleman, yet the students at St. Lawrence's had a hard time accepting that Draco was anything but a gentleman. She grinned quietly at the irony and said, "Speaking of Draco, I should probably go get him. How far off do you think dinner is?"

"I dunno. I'm too lazy to put a seismograph on Meg's stomach and check," Liz said, and once again ducked the pillow Meg threw at her head. It bounced off of the wall and onto Liz's newly copied notes, earning Meg a look from Liz. Smiling at her friends' antics and quite confused as to what exactly a "seismograph" was, Ginny left the door open as she headed for Trenton Hall all the way on the other side of campus.

*

"What are _you_ doing here?" Draco snarled, eyes growing wide at the sight of his visitor. 

Before his visitor could react, he lunged out into the hallway and secured a fistful of robes, tugging hard and sending none other than Malcolm Baddock sprawling to the floor of his dorm room. The younger man landed with an "oof!" but Draco did not care. Little more than a shred of decency was holding him back from delivering a swift kick to the prone young man's ribs. "You have ten seconds, Baddock, to explain why you are lying on the floor of my dorm room."

Baddock's first answer was a cough, eliciting a low, threatening growl from Draco. He nudged the fourteen-year-old none-too-gently with his foot.

"Let me up and I'll tell you why I'm here," he wheezed breathlessly. Reluctantly, Draco leaned down and hauled the younger man up, pushing him onto the bed before he could gain any sort of balance. "Thanks," Baddock snapped bitterly when Draco slammed the door behind him. "Trust me, I'm not here willingly."

Grey eyes narrowed into a steely gaze that most would have backed down from. "Just stop sulking and tell me why you're here," Draco snapped. "And hurry about it, I've little patience for young upstarts who really need to learn their place."

For an eternity, neither broke the strong-willed gaze that sprang between them like dangerous fire. They were polar opposites, with Baddock's shortened height accented by his sitting position on the bed. While Draco's hair was longish and just past his ears in an unkempt fashion, Baddock's was pulled into a tight, dark brown ponytail. Draco wore Muggle clothing; Baddock was clothed in some of the finest robes the wizarding world had to offer.

"Nobody's sulking here," Baddock replied in a dark tone that seemed to match his attire. "I've been sent here by your father, to deliver some things." From seemingly out of nowhere, he drew several red-tinted tubes of parchment and flung those on the ground at Draco's feet. "And I dare say you'll be needing _this_." A bit of cloth would have struck Draco in the chest had he not reached out with his Quidditch instincts and snatched it from the air. It whapped heavily against his palm; Baddock had all the strength of any professional Keeper.

Draco did not have to glance at the article to know what is was.

"Good. You've delivered your messages. Now abscond from my sight!"

Draco rightfully expected Baddock to scamper off, holding his tail between his legs and sending bitter looks back at the Quidditch captain. What he was not expecting Baddock to do at this was snigger.

"'Abscond?'" Baddock asked through a muffled snicker. Still, he was climbing to his feet, sniffing disdainfully at the cot Draco had been assigned at St. Lawrence's. Even as he headed to the door, he was still snickering. "What kind of freak uses words like that? You could have just said, 'leave.'" 

"A well-educated and mature freak," Draco replied with every bit of dignity he possessed. He eyed the younger boy rather sceptically and waved his hand at the door, reinforcing the lock with a bit of wandless magic. "As much as I want you gone, you didn't explain yourself fully. Why are you working for my father?"

Baddock sent him a look as though to say, "Does it really matter?" Only when Draco's scowl deepened did he even ponder answering. "My father owed your father some debts, if you really must know, so _I'm_ employed as summer help at Malfoy Manor until I'm seventeen. Which means that you have to put with me for another three years yet." He smiled mirthlessly and jiggled the door handle. "What, you want to spend quality time with me now, or something?"

Draco's only answer was a snort as he waved at the door again. One blink, and Baddock was gone as quickly as though he had Apparated away.

As the door clicked shut, Draco collapsed back into the desk chair. Really, he thought as Fawkes emerged from under the bed, scolding him with high-pitched chirps, what irony gods had he upset? Was somebody upstairs laughing because he had see Malcolm Baddock everyday of his life for the next year—summer or otherwise? 

Irony was so unfair.

*

Draco was still sitting at his desk, looking over the orders that had been delivered to him, when Ginny found him an hour later. She entered quietly, not bothering to knock, and petted Fawkes until Draco realised she was there. "Oh!" he cried, slightly startled at the sight of her sitting on the edge of his bed. He'd been engrossed in _A Midsummer Night's Dream_, a comedy by Shakespeare. "Hullo—when'd you come in?" 

"Just now," Ginny said, smiling at his perplexed expression. Glancing at the title of the book, she asked, "Reading up for Potions now, are you?"

It took Draco a long moment to realise that the Shakespearean book was still disguised as a normal Potions textbook. "Er," he said, trying to sound smooth but failing miserably. "Yes. It's my summer assignments, see. Professor Snape requested that I do a bit of extra work. Head Boy stuff, and all."

Thankfully, she bought his excuse. "Yes, I remember how Percy was always so busy the summer before his Head Boy term. Of course, I think he was secretly writing to his girlfriend, but…" She trailed off and wrinkled her nose at him, spurring him to grin despite himself. An unsettled silence fell over the pair, bursting at the edges with unvoiced questions. Finally, Ginny took the initiative and cleared her throat. "I didn't really get to talk to you earlier, so I desperately need to ask—what are you doing here?"

Her question was ensconced with such Gryffindor bluntness that it threw Draco out of his bemusement and into a sharp void of disbelief. He choked on nothing, and when he looked up, his eyes were wide chasms of grey. "Not intent on rolling out the welcome mat, were we?" he asked. Regaining his composure, he said in his most formal tone, "I am here for exactly the same reasons you are here, Miss Weasley. You will find that I have a full schedule of lectures to attend."

Ginny's answer to this foreign formality was a snort. "Right. And your father didn't have any underhanded motives for sending you here? For some strange reason, I find myself doubting that he just bent to your wishes to come here."

Draco was tempted to laugh at his father for the amount of times he had scorned the Weasleys for being stupid, foolish Mudblood-lovers. Ginny's rather unnatural perceptiveness definitely eradicated any chance of her being mistaken for a stupid fool. "You caught me," he admitted, smiling at the rampant irony. "This does not leave this room, do you hear me?"

"Why, I'm flattered that you're finally informing of things before the fact," Ginny replied at her most innocent.

"Quiet, you."

A few well-placed silencing charms had been set up in various points of Draco's room—mainly to stop people from hearing his screams from the nightmarish memories. He had worked it so that they activated at his will, and remained dormant otherwise. Always the cautious son of a Death Eater, Draco now activated these with a wave of his hand and waited for his lamp to glow blue. If there was any break in the network of spells, the lampshade would glow green. Once Ginny's fiery locks were lit with blue, Draco began explaining.

When he pulled the list of his contacts out of his pocket, Ginny arched an eyebrow. "There's Dark Activity in America?" she asked, her voice vaguely disbelieving. The people at St. Lawrence's just seemed so _nice_.

"Loads of it. Britain's great for your traditional sorts of Dark Wizards, but America is brimming with freelance Dark Artists—Potions corridors, Dark Magic paraphernalia cartels, Dark Magic gangs. A lot of them deal in Muggle affairs—the pure-blooded influence holds no water over here, you see. There's a good market for Billywig stings for people our age, and a lot of the Dark Circles have bases here." When he was incredibly bored, Draco often chose to read up on the other societies of Dark Magic. It had always struck him as ironically amusing—he was looking out from his own world of pain and into other peoples'. It was a topic he could prattle on about for hours.

Ginny looked at him now, wide-eyed. She swallowed, trying to word her question properly. "Does Voldemort…does he hold power here?"

"You mean, does he have Death Eaters here?" Running one hand out of his hair to keep it out of his eyes, Draco stood up and crossed to the window, looking out at the slowly darkening twilight. "Not yet. America's a large area to canvass—and he'd be buried under all the big names here. Remember Scarface? Al Capone, legendary Muggle gangster. Muggle as they come, but he had cohorts in the wizarding world—lines that have still gone on. Muggle lines die—wizard lines live. America's a salient for Dark Arts."

"My father despises America, or he claims to. Really, I think he's afraid of the unkempt power roaming around. It's a different breed of evil here. Mobs, gangs, big names, they're all important. What Voldemort is striving for is mortality and purity of the wizarding world. I don't know why—maybe he thinks by beating down the Mud—Muggle-borns and half-bloods will help eradicate his problems. What he's after, no one can be entirely sure. That's why he's so terrible in England. He's unpredictable. " He saw two wizards below playing a game that involved a large orange ball and a basket of some sort. "In Europe, however, it's more concentrated, you get it?"

Slowly, Ginny nodded, obviously trying to swallow the unfiltered lump of information he had just thrust at her. "So Voldemort doesn't have supporters here?" she rephrased.

Draco's smirk was empty, a reflexive ghost. "He doesn't have Death Eaters here," he said, and Ginny breathed a sigh of relief. "No, but he does have support." At Ginny's perplexed expression, he managed a consoling smile and, "The thing is, Voldemort needs funds. Every big movement does. He's not stupid—he _knows_ that people with the sort of power to provide him with the support his progression won't bind themselves to him with a Dark Mark. So Death Eaters are the _servants_," and Draco spit the word out like a vomit-flavoured Bertie Bott's bean, "that carry his Mark. He's got backers everywhere, but mostly they're away from the Ministry's prying eyes. And America is the perfect place to find backers, isn't it?"

"So what do _you_ have to do with this?"

Now Draco crossed to the desk and selected four red-tinted tubes of parchment, pushing those in Ginny's direction. A bit confused, she took them, and opened the first one. He talked while she skimmed over the contents. "I'm to meet with four different couples that support Lord Voldemort financially as a sort of poster boy for the Death Eating side, if you get that. Allay any doubts they might have, plead for more money, look mature. I'm supposed to meet two of my contacts for a drink and lunch tomorrow, a trip to a country club (whatever that is) on Wednesday, and a respectable restaurant for dinner on Thursday night."

Ginny closed the parchment tube, her eyebrows nearly covering her eyes. "Rub elbows with them, play the good son of a Death Eater, that sort of thing?" she asked sceptically. "Sounds less messy than what I imagine a normal Death Eater's job to be."

"Are you kidding? These people are dogs—they'll eat me alive!" Draco's hair was sticking up in clumps as he pushed it out of his eyes once again. "We have to pretend to be Muggles, and there's certain things you don't do in situations like this." He sighed rather ruefully. "I bet my father's just laughing at me right now, being stuck with such a contemptible job."

"Watch your back," Ginny offered. "You're playing in the grown-ups' region now." Fawkes, whose presence had been forgotten in the low-pitched conversation, chirped an affirmative, fluttering up to land on Ginny's shoulder. She smiled up at the effervescent bird, who seemed to cluck scolding notes at the scroll in her hand. Clearly amused, Ginny passed that up to the bird, who bit them in half.

"No!" Draco protested as bits of parchment fell to the floor. "Those were my assignments!"

"Like you don't memorise everything you read anyway," Ginny told him, smiling at him for the first time. Finally remembering why she had sought Draco out in the first place, she climbed off of the bed and dusted herself off. "The other girls sent me to see if you wanted to come eat dinner with us. From what I gathered, they took well to you—heaven knows why!"

Draco pretended indignation. "Why, my charming wit and stunning good looks of course," he admonished. "After all, isn't that why you befriended me in the first place?"

Although her smile was a bit off, Ginny laughed and said, "Er, sure, something like that. Don't know why…" Still, despite her teasing, she waited for Draco to deactivate the silencing wards and took the arm he offered her. Fawkes warbled a farewell to the pair as they set off for Raleigh Hall.

"So how are you getting on here?" Draco asked conversationally as they hit the last of the St. Louis sunlight. "You seem…I don't know. Different than you are at Hogwarts."

Chewing on her bottom lip like she did whenever there was a problem to be solved, Ginny contemplated "I've got friends here, maybe? I mean, I talk to Jamie Marx and Colin's a great friend, but it's different with Meg and Liz."

They chatted comfortably like old friends as they made their way across the sun-warmed sidewalks outlining the St. Lawrence's campus. A few people were flinging a frisbee on the great lawns, laughing at jokes that neither of the pair could quite hear. Ginny had to bite back a wistful sigh; the young men and women playing frisbee on the lawn looked so carefree and young. None of her friends had ever looked that young or untroubled. It was a past life, a mere ghost that she longed for, but knew it would always remain just out of reach or stay intangible and cold on her fingertips.

They moved up to the third floor of Raleigh hall where both Liz and Ginny lived, still talking easily, as though the history between their families and themselves did not exist. For one moment as they trudged the stairs together, there existed nothing but an amicable intimacy that can only be achieved between friends with nothing and everything to lose to friendship. Quite reluctant to break up the moment, Draco slowed as they neared Ginny's door. Without thinking, he grabbed her arm. "Hey, I had a question." 

"I may have an answer," Ginny answered evasively, her eyes uncertain.

He had been plotting to ask this question from the second they left his dorm room, so he was quite surprised when an intense wave of nervousness struck him hard on the spot. Shifting his feet from the sudden attack, he worked up the strength to look her in the eye. "Uh, my contact list requires that I have a date for Thursday evening. Er, I was possibly wondering if, uh, I mean, er, would you consider going with me?" The last bit came out in a rush.

For an excruciatingly long moment, Ginny just looked at him with her eyebrows raised. It seemed like an eternity to the perspiring Draco before Ginny asked, in a careful voice, "Draco Malfoy, are you asking me out?"

"No!—Well, uh…yes. Yes, I am." Draco swallowed, but his throat remained impossibly dry. "Look, I know our circumstances are difficult, but can't we try at least one date? The thing is, ever since I met you, there's been something about you…well, I can't put my finger on it, but I've really, really liked you from the beginning. If it doesn't work, we can just go back to being friends and—"

"Yes," Ginny interrupted, and Draco now could see that she was fighting back a smile at his inarticulateness. "I think that'd be rather fun." And before Draco could even so much as rejoice, she disappeared into her bedroom.

Draco grinned rather dazedly at the empty hallway. For once, he did not care the least bit about what he looked like. Appearances were immaterial in the face of such joyous news.

Something was finally going his way. 


	7. Interlude With A Vampire

A/N: Well, after the excitement of seeing Draco stumble over himself last chapter, I've decided that some of my important characters finally needs to have their say. The fact that Hermione had a POV segment in chapter three wasn't laziness in keeping to the Draco/Ginny plotline, and just wait until you meet Fate…

Disclaimer: Well, I think I'm going to publish Nicholas Von Blüten, maybe Smidley, and possibly my characterisation of Fate, so they may one day belong to me. Until then, however, I'm just a poor college kid pattering around in a world that's not mine. 

PS – This is the chapter where _Deeper Than Blood_ starts to resemble a very bad acid trip. Hope you enjoy—I certainly did.

__

Blurring and stirring the truth and the lies  
So I don't know what's real and what's not  
Always confusing the thoughts in my head  
So I can't trust myself anymore

- Going Under, Evanescence

****

Interlude with a Vampire

Chapter Seven

Clutching her cloak tightly around her throat, Hermione brought up the rear of the ragtag group of wizards that trooped across the soggy wetlands near the Danube River. They were somewhere around Galati, she knew, near the Ukraine, but Lupin refused to tell her where exactly they were headed. He had been very tight-lipped lately, especially in regards to where they were going today. Before, he had always filled Hermione in on the details pertaining to each case they were supposed to cover. Being a freelance Dark Arts fighter was no easy task, Hermione had discovered, but she was slowly learning to love the position. Never had the knowledge she had gleaned from Hogwarts come in so useful outside of the school's walls.

Lupin, who had been leading the procession, waved for the others to go ahead of him and trooped back to Hermione. Like Hermione, he was wearing the thick boots allotted to all of the people living in Smidley's Warehouse, and a pair of blue jeans that had more holes in them than stitches, it seemed. His cloak was left open in the front, exposing a knitted grey jumper. "We're almost there, you know," he said conversationally as he fell into step beside Hermione.

Hermione let out a grunt; exercise had never got along particularly well with her. After a summer of running around chasing down Dark Creatures, Hermione was slowly faring better, but they had been hiking since sun-up. Her frizzy mass of hair had been pulled back into something loosely related to a bun, but strands of it had a habit of drifting into her eyes at the most inconvenient moments. Still, she was determined to keep up with the full-fledged freelancers, as they called themselves. "Our destination is in the middle of nowhere?"

This inspired a laugh, as many of the things she said did. Inwardly, Hermione frowned. The freelancers were always laughing at her observations, but several times those same observations had saved them loads of trouble. "Yes, actually. We're to reach the Calling Stone soon."

"The Calling Stone?" Hermione demanded, her mind already racing. Calling Stones were rare enough to come by that they were only mentioned in passing in all of the texts Hermione had pored over in preparation for her summer training. There were supposedly seven of them in all, and all of them had Unplottable Spells placed on them, so that they would never be located on a map. "What sort of Dark Creature are we Calling?"

There was that mysterious smile that she was beginning to dislike. That mysterious smile meant that she would be in the dark for quite a while yet. Indeed, Lupin answered, "You'll see. Just hold on," and plodded up to the front of the group.

Hermione did not have long to wait, fortunately, for the group soon slowed its trek at the entrance of a clearing not an hour later. "This it, Smidley?" one of the freelancers called up the line.

"Yes—bags down!"

Like the rest of the freeloaders, Hermione unloaded her rucksack, hanging it on a low tree branch to protect it from the sodden terrain. As the only apprentice in the group, she was expected to wait in the rear, having as little training as she did. However, Jonathan Smidley, the unofficial co-leader of the Romanian freelancers, gestured impatiently for her to join up with himself and Lupin. They were deep in a whispered conference when she approached, both eyebrows raised. "Well, have we reached the Calling Stone?"

"Yes," Smidley said, breaking off the conversation. "It's in this clearing up here." Like most of the freelancers, he was gangling and undernourished from such a hard lifestyle, and his dark brown hair was going prematurely grey. He wore a pullover with the sleeves pushed up, and Hermione could see the criss-crossing pattern of scars that Smidley prided himself over twisting up to his elbows. "Granger, you've got to stay behind Lupin at all costs, understand me? The Undead's a tricky business with professionals—and most of these folks are as green as their gizzards."

"I don't think gizzards are green," Hermione observed honestly. Smidley's exasperated expression made her bite back her smile. "But, yes, you have my word that I'll stay back. No foolish heroics for me." She waved her hands in an "I surrender" motion to show that she fully intended to do as Smidley had asked.

It happened quickly; Smidley's hand dropped from the sky in a universal signal to move out, and Hermione found herself trailing Remus into the clearing, careful to mimic his footsteps. He smiled when he saw what she was doing, but did not say anything. Moving with an anomalous stealth, the freelancers very quickly set up a circle around a boxy, worn altar sitting in the dead centre of the dell. Atop the altar, Hermione could see an expanse of obsidian, darkened by the twisted tree branches all about. "The Calling Stone…" she whispered to herself.

"Wands out!" Smidley called to the freelancers. Hermione's wand found its way to her hand instinctively.

"Stay back," Lupin warned under his breath as he, like the rest of the freelancers, raised his wand towards the grey-stone altar. Hermione did not have to look around to know that they formed the perfect heptagonal ring around the Calling Stone—she had been the eighth person in line, after all. There were so many odd quirks that came with being a freelancer, she had discovered, and knowing picky little things like this was one of them. "This is often not pretty."

"What is?" Hermione wanted to ask, but bit her tongue on the question.

Later, she would write in her rapidly expanding journal about seeing the Calling Stone in use. Smidley was the first one to start chanting, saying the same three-word incantation over and over to a rhythm Hermione did not quite catch. The wizard on his right started chanting, initiating a round, until all seven people in the circle were in a perfect, seven-part chorus that went round and round. The words made Hermione pull her cloak tighter about her shoulders—some sort of ancient magic was being invoked, and she wasn't sure if she quite fancied the idea. She shivered as the incantations built to a steady roar.

Just as the wizards were nearly screaming, an almighty screech tore the air and the clearing exploded with green light. Hermione was the only one that flinched away. She had to stuff her hand into her mouth to muffle the gasp that nearly burst from her at the sight of the Undead being floating above the Calling Stone, suspended by the green light of seven wands.

She had read about the Undead in her books of course—pale, sickly sorts of creatures that drank the blood of cows and humans in order to stay Undead. When reading up on them, she had always thought that Draco Malfoy might have Undead blood in him somewhere, for the vampires in the pictures always seemed to look like him. This vampire that floated above the Calling Stone now—for he could be nothing else in Hermione's studied mind—could have passed as an older brother to Malfoy. They were built along the same lines, with the same aristocratic features, and the same white-blond hair. Peering over Lupin's shoulder, she could even see the same half-angry, half-tortured sneer on the vampire's face.

The vampire floated in mid-air, facing Smidley. Lupin and Hermione were perched just at the edge of his vision, which was actually so strong in the day that vampires shirked away from sunlight. The eyes that glared at Smidley now were blacker than the empty soul Hermione knew to be kept within the black pendant at his throat. From her vantage point, she could see the tiniest grey iris, and realised that the blackness of the vampire's eyes was really his pupils. It was probably more than coincidence that they had picked a cloudy day to Call a vampire.

"Why have you Called me here?" the vampire demanded of Smidley, his blackened eyes widening in obvious rage. "I am not a servant waiting at your beck and call, Smidley!"

Why did it not surprise Hermione that Smidley would hold first-name-basis relationships with the Undead?

Smidley threw his large head back and laughed outright, making the vampire tense up even more angrily. The vampire certainly did not look happy to be suspended above the Calling Stone. "We just needed some information, that's all. And then you can go back to your nap, Nicky."

Hermione blinked, almost positive that she had just heard Smidley refer to the vampire as "Nicky."

"The name," the vampire said stuffily, "is Nicholas Von Blüten, and I'd appreciate it if you remembered—"

"Sure, Nicky."

Because she had already spent over a week in his presence, Hermione sensed, more than saw, Lupin's perfunctory look at Smidley that clearly read, "Behave!" They made such odd leaders of the expedition, with Smidley's comical jollity and strapping energy, and Lupin's laid-back authority clashing or harmonising at random. Right now, Smidley chose to sober.

"Sorry, Herr Von Blüten," Lupin said, discreetly stepping forward to cover Hermione's existence outside of the heptagon. "You have my apologies for my partner's rashness."

Nick, for Hermione could scarcely think of him as anything else, revolved in place so that he was facing Lupin. A courteous challenge shimmered in the air between them, emphasised by the gasps from the remaining five members of the heptagon. Two Dark Creatures facing each other…"The leopard cannot change its spots."

"But he can purchase a new coat," Lupin replied tactfully, shooting a sideways glare at Smidley. The other man chose to let that off with a shrug. "What we need, Herr Von Blüten, is, like my partner so tactlessly put it, information. Our sources tell us that there's been Dark Magic in heavy abundance lately…"

"The Dark Lord is back, is he not?" Nick asked in the same voice an older sibling used to taunt a young child with a piece of candy. "Would he not be the cause of such Dark Magic, as you say?"

"That's not what I mean, and you know it." The set of Lupin's shoulders told Hermione that this would not be an easy interrogation. But that was what they deserved for this interview with an unwilling vampire, wasn't it? "That's Unforgivables, and nothing that would set the Underworld in motion. I'm talking about ancient magicks, magicks that shouldn't ever be awakened. The vampires, the selkies, the nymphs and dryads, even the sirens down on the Black Sea—there's turmoil there. What's going on?"

There was a predatory gleam in Nick's eyes. "Drop your wands and I will tell you," he sing-songed, dropping the angry mask in favour of a much more malicious and evil one. In the cold light from that mask, Hermione suppressed a shiver.

"And become the newest members of the Von Blüten squad?" Smidley demanded, drawing the vampire's attention back to him. He snorted very openly and raised his wand a few centimetres for good measure. Hatred blazed momentarily in Nick's eyes. "Not bloody likely. Wouldn't want to give you a bragging post, would we? Eight freelancers, all added to your squad in time for afternoon tea?"

The air changed then, swapping from average summery air to something darker, deeper, untold. The change was punctuated by uneasy looks between Lupin and the rest of the heptagon, who had up until now remained silent. Had she not been clutching her cloak tightly about her throat already, Hermione would have done so now. She felt as though a thousand eyes were boring into her, exposing every little secret that she had ever kept. Her very essence was wide open to the general public.

"Eight, you say?" Nick's voice was soft, deceptive. "A Calling Circle involves only seven…"

In a moment of unbroken fate, Hermione's brown eyes locked with the dead, black-consumed eyes of a vampire.

"She is outside the Calling Circle—you can't touch her, Nick!" she heard Lupin snap distantly, but it did not register; she was drawn in, entranced by the utter blackness she saw there…A thousand things were visible within nothing, ten thousand even. Truths, half-truths, lies mingled together into one mass of knowledge that escaped beyond the edge of her mortal mind, a verisimilitude so great that she could not hope to encompass its mass with her limited comprehension.

Nicholas Von Blüten looked away, and the feeling exploded from her, draining her. She stumbled forward as if invisible strings had tugged her feet, and fell. Her palm tingled as her hand penetrated the Calling Circle. Dazedly, she was aware that Lupin was straining to reach her, but she was suddenly hundreds of kilometres away, trapped in her own world. Everybody but herself and the vampire was immaterial here.

"It was your fault that you brought a Guide, then, Lupin!"

Outwardly, she was aware that several people were shouting in disbelief, that Lupin was calling for her stop, but she only saw the dark swath Nick made in the air as he swooped towards her—the cold, unreal feeling of his hand as it captured hers—the sickening stomach-drop of being air-born—an arctic slap, like ice to her face as she fell alongside the vampire into the Calling Stone—the whirl of wind rushing through her hair…

They hit the ground at a high enough velocity to make both living and Undead bump and roll to separate stops on cold stone. Dazedly, she forced her prickling muscles to a sitting position and looked all around her, strangely devoid of all fear. She could have laughed in Voldemort's serpentine face right now.

Nick had apparently hauled her into some sort of gothic palace, suspended from the books she had read as a child. They were in a room large enough to be the Great Hall at Hogwarts, or even bigger. Hermione could not quite make out the ceilings in the darkness, but she could see great stone pillars with foreign, gothic symbols carved around the bases in angry, brooding strokes. A smooth stone floor stretched all about her, broken only by an obsidian circle only metres away. "What's going on?" Hermione managed, though her tongue felt as though it had been glued to the bottom of her mouth. She felt a sticky warmth on her cheek and knew that she had gashed her face at least once on the rough trip.

"Welcome to the realm of the Undead, mortal," Nick's voice came from her left. Twisting about with her wand in the ready position, she could see the Undead vampire grinning maniacally at her. A stab of fear penetrated the surreal haze that had fallen over her upon entering the Calling Circle. "Put the wand away—it will not work here."

Irrationally, Hermione's grip tightened on her wand.

"Have it your way, then," Nick said, rising easily to his feet. "If you can work the ancient magicks, why bother with a wand?" His eyes, blacker than they had been in the clearing, were large and amused at her expense. "You should be honoured, really. Only the Undead are usually allowed here. Very few others could ever survive."

Carefully, Hermione rose to her feet and tucked her wand into the pocket of her jeans. "'Honoured' wouldn't be how I would put it," she answered honestly, her eyes narrowed. "Why did you drag me here? All they wanted out of you was a bit of information about the strange happenings of Dark Magicks lately…"

"What they wanted is no concern of mine!" Wispy blond hair fell into smouldering black eyes, silencing her more effectively than any charm. With an aggravated sigh that expressed world-weariness, ironically enough, Nick twitched his head in a "come-hither" motion. "Come, before my patience grows thin. We have much to do."

Hermione's knees buckled, but her Gryffindor spirit shone through. "I'm not going anywhere. I don't intend to end up like…like…"

"Like what? Like my kin?" Nick snapped, striding closer to her. Before Hermione could so much as cry out, he had reached out a hand and swiped a bit of the blood off her cheek. Disgusted, she watched as he licked his fingers and cocked his head to the side. After a moment, he shook his head in similar disgust. "Do not worry. You are not my type." His feral grin did nothing to assuage the sudden flame of fear that burst within Hermione, making her gasp from the unbridled shock. "Too salty."

"Er, thanks, I think," Hermione managed to stutter.

"Anytime. Now will you _move_, woman? I have no time for these silly games!" The clammy hand grabbed her own once again, forcing Hermione into a quick walk. "We have only fourteen minutes until the Calling Stone reactivates itself! Mortals cannot stay here!"

"Why did you kidnap me if you're not going to turn me into…into an Undead?" Hermione asked, her confusion growing as they turned into a darkened corridor. It reminded her of a morbid, nightmarish version of Hogwarts, where the suits of armour looked even more terrifying, and the grim reality served only to make the edge of the fear more cutting.

Nick gave her a disparaging look, and she was reminded once again of the most recent encounter she had had with Draco Malfoy. "Even _I_ can barely stomach an unveiling into the Undead. There's no love-nip on the neck—I would have to drink _all_ of your blood. Before you get any ideas, I will assure that I am not that much of a glutton. The other members of my clan, maybe, but never me."

The corridor morphed into a series of corridors, all spineless, twisting sort of effigies of each other. One corridor moved into another without so much as a change of direction, suits of armour blended together into one unappealing mass of metal. Hermione's feet were moving quickly, numbly, but her mind was racing much, much faster than even the pair could fly. Her eyes were flitting, never resting, taking in every detail like she had been taught with the freelancers.

"So how do you eat if you don't like making Undead?" Hermione finally asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously on an oaken door.

"We are a civilised breed, Ms. Granger." Hermione did not ask how the vampire knew her name; it rolled from his tongue like he was _familiar_ with her. Maybe he knew her already. Did vampires know who would join their kin beforehand? The thought made Hermione shudder to herself. "We have kitchens for this sort of thing. And pubs, as you say."

The idea of a blood-pub was so ridiculous that Hermione's feet actually stalled for a brief moment, earning her a perverse look from Nick. She hastened her pace to catch up, reminding herself that annoying a vampire in his own lair might not be the brightest of ideas she had ever had. "How do you know my name?" she ventured after a moment.

Nick did not reply for the longest of moments, and they walked in a pronounced silence, for Hermione's boots were charmed not to make any noise, and Nick had an ethereal, floating aura about himself that made Hermione wonder if his boots touched the ground at all. There was very little that she actually knew about vampires, even though she had read every text she could get her hands on, in preparation for her summer apprenticeship.

"Fate. Do you believe in Fate, Miss Granger?" he finally asked, his heavy accent strangely clipped. He was not looking at her, but at the ground in front of him, as though in deep thought.

"Predestined embodiment of life?" Hermione asked for clarity, and received another irritated look for her efforts. She decided to try a much simpler tack. "Like True Love and the like?"

"Whole love." At Hermione's perplexed look, Nick explained, "That's what w_e_ call it here in the Realm. But the concepts are the same. It cannot be a fluke—there's some sort of magic there that effects everybody, mortal, Undead. Love so immense that it encompasses hatred, despair, beliefs, even…death." He sounded a bit impatient with her, as though he were waiting for her to land on some great epiphany that she had clearly missed.

Hermione thought briefly of Harry, who had been saved by such a love, only to be delivered into the hands of its antithesis: reality. Had Lily Potter's magic not saved him that night, Harry would never have had to deal with the Dursleys, Death Eaters, death, Dark Lords, and very many other things that began with the nefarious letter "D." Fate had dealt him an unkind hand. Still, she wondered where Nick was going with this. "True—or Whole Love, that's destiny?"

"Destiny. Ah, yes. Very closely related, and often mistaken for Fate."

Hermione had read several papers on the subjects of Fate and destiny, but could never tell where one began and the other ended. Fate, she had gathered, was one's main purpose in life, and destiny was how one would end up, or with whom. But the subjects were so closely interrelated that Hermione really didn't spend too much time brooding over them. She preferred solid, tangible things and the mysteries involved around that sort of thing. Fate and destiny were too far within the borderlines of Divination for her. "Why do you ask?"

"No mortal can enter the Realm of the Undead without the proper fate. I was curious to see if you were aware of your fate yet." Another long, heavy pause, as vampire and mortal moved together. "I think…no, your fate is an interesting one, but do not ask me why. It shall be explained to you...someday."

She bit her lip as Nick pulled open a door buried in an alcove, and gestured impatiently for her to go through ahead of him. Although walking with a vampire at her back was not high on Hermione's list of things to accomplish in life, she let her Gryffindor instincts lead her into what was obviously some type of laboratory. A long table split a darkened room in half, leaving two blank expanses before the rows and rows of metal shelves began. Every flat surface was covered to the point of bending with strange gadgets that rivalled those Hermione had seen in all of the horror movies she had watched during the holidays and as a child.

"My laboratory," Nick said by way of explanation.

"It's, er, nice," Hermione complimented, tearing her eyes off of what looked to be a modified dentists' drill. She thought fleetingly of her parents, locked in the safe house, but now was not the time to think of such things. Now was the time to figure out why exactly she had been dragged into the Realm of the Undead, where few mortals had walked before. She ought to feel honoured, really, but she found that the terror was too great for such an achievement. "What do you experiment on?"

"Mortals." Nick flicked a Muggle switch in one corner and two lanterns sizzled to life on opposite sides of the room, although they flickered several times. The contraptions looked a trifle less sinister. "You'll have to forgive the Muggle electricity—the Von Blüten Estate was built by Muggles in the other Realm, and they are usually so insistent about using electricity, although we _told_ them…" He trailed off, shrugging that information aside, and crossed to the opposite end of the table. What looked to be a potions kit was nestled in between other contrivances.

"You experiment on mortals?" Hermione demanded, her voice squeaking.

"Calm down, foolish girl. I did not bring you here to experiment on you—no, you are here for other purposes entirely." Nick was not looking at her as he said this; his attention was focused on two vials of potion that he held very carefully in both hands. As Hermione watched, wide-eyed, he set one of the vials down and picked up an eyedropper instead. "Tell me what you know about Ritualistic Magicks."

Hermione's attention was drawn away from a morbid-looking ensemble of blades. "Pardon?"

"Ritualistic Magicks—particularly from the earliest centuries," Nick replied impatiently. However, his hands were steady as he carefully released droplets of a bright green potion into a clear liquid. The water was slowly turning blood red. "Not so much the rituals themselves, either. The roles involved."

Hermione's brow crinkled; they had covered this during her fourth year at Hogwarts, which was a hazy year for her. When they hadn't been helping Harry out, it had been a constant battle with Ron. Being friends with those two certainly made schoolwork harder, but Hermione was able to remember at least three of the ritualistic formations. "Well...it depends on which part of the world you want. I mean, the peoples of what is now South America believed in a seven-point formation, like the one utilising the Calling Stone. European peoples adopted that later, yes, but until then they used a simpler six-point formation with the traditional roles as opposed to a chanting round."

She was about to go on about the four-point formation, but Nick shook his head abruptly. "Tell me about that one," he commanded. "That is the one that interests me."

For a moment, Hermione wondered why a member of the Undead didn't know about Ritualistic Magick. It was one of the oldest branches of magic, perhaps older than the Undead themselves. Of course, there really wasn't a way to tell the age of a vampire without being a vampire yourself, so Nick could have been her age, or around to see the fringe end of Ritualistic Magick. Hermione did not question it as she categorised the knowledge she had gleaned from this topic in her head.

"The Six-Point Ritual, derived from theories of the astrologer Arigone, involves, as made obvious by its name, six people. Arigone was a firm believer in the Greek Zodiac, and selected six signs (nobody is quite sure how he did this) of the Muggle Zodiac, which varies in certain dates from the wizarding Zodiac. When working together, he claimed, these signs were potent enough to create…well, great things, he said. Nobody has ever translated exactly what he was theorising."

Hermione paused in her explanations to look questioningly at Nick. "Why are you asking me to explain all of this? Don't you _know_?" she asked suspiciously. "You're the _vampire_ here! Isn't this supposed to be in your instincts, all of this old magic?"

"Humour me." Nick's voice was flat as he said this, but the set in his shoulders expressed quite a bit of agitation. He was moving, Hermione noticed with some trepidation, away from the potions kit and towards the knife set she had spotted earlier. Her throat felt dry, but there was nothing else to do but comply with the vampire until she could form a better escape route.

"The premise for the entire ritual is very simple—an incantation, chanting in unity, the setting of an old wizard ceremonial ground, the placement of the star Vega at zenith…"

Nick's head flew up, making Hermione jump despite herself. "Vega, you say?" he asked, silver eyes narrowing into dangerous crescents. "Why Vega?"

Hermione shrugged. "Professor Vector never really covered that much. In a few thousand years, it will be the star that all of the other stars appear to revolve around, and something about an apocalypse occurring when Vega takes the sky…" She trailed off, uncertain as to how long vampires lived. Her textbooks had been utterly unclear about anything relating to vampires—she usually went off of her Muggle roots in her calculations of the Dark Beings. Sure, she knew little things, like the fact that vampires had eyes so sensitive to light that anything but firelight was claimed to kill them, but she was in the dark on some very important issues around vampires.

"So, this six-point ritual—what are the…positions played?" Nick asked carefully. He was fiddling with something Hermione couldn't see in the low light, so she turned her eyes away to scrutinise the shelves.

"Well, there's the Initiator, the Guide, the Lover…" Hermione trailed off once again, but this time, her eyebrows were hunkered low in suspicion. Her eyes, however, slowly widened until they became lakes of white and brown. "That's what you called me earlier. A Guide. Am I…am I to participate in one of these rituals?"

"The other three positions, Miss Granger? You didn't finish."

It was then that Hermione decided that she did not like vampires. Nick was too fickle a personality, flitting between this character and that personification. Cold and calculating one moment, gruff and abrupt the next, and haughty the third. It was a cycle through all of the personalities she happened to loathe; yes, Nicholas Von Blüten was _very_ much like Draco Malfoy.

"One of the blood, one of the fire, one of the leaden paths, one of the lighted heart, one of the darkness returned to light, and one of the hidden," Hermione quoted, feeling quite irritated. Shouldn't a vampire _know _these sorts of things? Why was he making her repeat trivial information? "It's written in every Ancient Magicks textbook a girl can get her hands on. Some refer to them as the Guide, the Brother, the Initiator, the Lover, the Foe, and the Sleeper. Their Fates are written the moment they take life into their lungs."

"Very good, Miss Granger. You really _are_ quite the walking textbook." In the time that she had been recalling everything she had learned, Nick had been chopping up an unknown, murky-green sort of leaf into the potions he had been working with. "I had not believed it when Fate came to dinner last week, but…"

"Fate came to dinner?" Hermione demanded, feeling perplexed.

The smile Nick gave her was tempered with amusement at her confusion. She did not like the smug side of Nick either, she determined. "Fate is a compulsion. When it feels that it has grown thick enough, such in the case of your friend Harry Potter, it decides to drop in on a meal at the Von Blüten estate. Don't know why—we're such boring dinner hosts…"

Hermione's head was spinning by now. "Fate is a _person_?" she queried, trying to make a head or tails of the entire mess. "I _thought _that it was a…circumstance of sorts that differentiated between people."

"The under-workings of the magical world _are_ strange, I'll grant you that. You should see it when Death comes to dinner—of course, it rarely ever does. I personally feel that it dislikes us because we cheated it, but what can one do? The compulsions really must like our cuisine." Two very sinister fangs showed as Nick smiled outright for the first time. Hermione blinked and the smile was gone, but she could see the tips of the fangs at the corners of Nick's chapped lips. Did all vampires have chapped lips?

"Ahem." Nick's pointed throat-clearing noise drew her fascination away from vampires and lip-balm. Looking down, Hermione realised that he was extending one of the vials of potion to her. "Drink that."

Hermione took the potion, but did nothing more than hold it. "What's in it?" she asked suspiciously, and held it up so that she could view it in better light. The liquid inside was strangely translucent for all of the ingredients she had just seen him throw inside, but six years of potion-making had taught her to expect the unexpected. She eyed the blue-green liquid now with distaste.

"A simple Seeing Sluice. Potent, yes, but simple. As the Guide, no Undead can touch you or hurt you, so the potion will have no harmful effects. It will enable you to view the doorways to the Realm of the Undead, so that you can Guide the person you have been sent to Guide properly." Now Nick's smile was twisted, almost bitter. He looked less frightening with such a common expression on his face. "Fate warned me that this would happen last week at dinner, but I never imagined you would arrive with _Smidley_."

Hermione uncapped the potion. "You know Smidley?" she asked curiously, moving her hand so that the liquid swished back and forth. She wafted the smell closer to her face, but could detect nothing in the unfamiliar scent.

Vampires may not age, Hermione remembered, but they certainly had old men's eyes. "Smidley and I attended Hogwarts together, yes. We were freelancers, but the Von Blüten clan decided they wanted me for their own. It's a profitable life in the Realm of the Undead, yes, but humans suddenly become very…_trying_." Nick's eyes snapped back to their usual cold vibrancy. "Drink the potion."

Feeling as though she could possibly be making the biggest mistake of her life, Hermione tipped her head back and guzzled the potion down. She spluttered immediately, but the damage had already been done—the oily substance greased down her throat, sliding sickeningly through her oesophagus. "What," she managed, "did you just feed me? That didn't taste like Seeing Sluice!"

"Sluices come in all tastes and colours, Miss Granger. Pleasure meeting you. Be sure to drop in sometime within the next couple of weeks."

Hermione only had a flash of Nick's blond hair and the darkened laboratory before she felt the inexplicable pull on every part of her body, jerking her through substantial and insubstantial material. Her stomach wrenched painfully, and then she was flying, her throat somewhere among her toes. The world blurred together as she plummeted through the castle corridors, bulls-eyeing for the Calling Stone.

With a sickening lurch, she hit the stone and passed _through_, heading into sunlight. "Stupefy!" Before she had time to register this, however, unconsciousness had swept in and carried her off to its own world.

*   


While the world slept, Draco Malfoy brooded.

He picked up the unfamiliar ballpoint pen, using his left hand to manoeuvre it into the proper position between his fingers (he never had this problem with quills, but the pens were so bulky and unfamiliar…), and poised it over the empty page of the Soul Book. He had flipped through the entire book when it had called out to him, but each page was purposely blank. That left one of two meanings: he had either given up his soul by asking the daughter of a family feuding with his out on a formal occasion, or the Soul Book wanted him to write inside it.

He sincerely hoped that it was the second option.

His looping script raced tidily across the page. "I just asked an innocent girl out on the world's most impossible date, and in doing so, furthered the cause of the most nefarious criminal to tread through Britain. One might say that my daily accomplishment is complete."

What the Soul Book returned just underneath his sentence was a sketch of some sort. A comic, Draco realised, looking at the brightly coloured lines. A Muggle comic of a man wearing a tight suit and decked in a cape. Underneath that, written in Draco's own handwriting, was the label "Superman!"

Draco snorted despite himself. "Hardly," he wrote in reply. Feeling inspired, he continued, "I don't wear leotards." It struck him then that he was conversing with a book, but he found himself strangely apathetic.

The Soul Book answered yet again, but this time the drawing was a stick figure with balls for his hands and feet. As Draco watched, the figure wiggled into life, pointing up at him. The stick-shoulders shook with laughter. "Hey!" he protested aloud, and hastened to write, "Spare a bloke some dignity here, will you?"

"Sorry!" flashed across the page.

"You'd better be," Draco muttered uncharitably. He carried the book over to his bed and sat with his back propped against the wall and the book leaning against his knees. After a moment of thought, he wrote, "What should I talk about?"

Draco dropped the pen and listened to it skitter across the hardwood tiles in disbelief as a sketched portrait of Ginny Weasley looked up at him through the mutable pages of the Soul Book. She was not smiling, but her _expression was inherently amused, and stands of red dangled in front of her eyes, like they always did whenever she wore her hair down. It was the Ginny Weasley everybody could see, and nobody could fathom.

The Ginny Weasley that had agreed to go with _him_ on Thursday.

Without thinking, he scribbled down, "What about her? She's my…" He trailed off in his head and on the page. What _was_ she to him? There was physical attraction, definitely. Ginny Weasley was, hands-down, the most beautiful girl he knew. She didn't have his mother's classic beauty, either; no, her pulchritude was inner, like Jessie Daleford's was. When her eyes were closed, it was almost non-existent, but when she looked at him…

When had he started feeling like this? On the train, she had been pretty in the conventional sense, just a friend. Had it started then? Did sharing such a moment turn on this physical and emotional attraction? Draco had cried to his mother loads of times as a very young child, before Lucius's teachings took hold, but he felt no more than the bond of a dutiful son. Draco had no other relationships to go off of, because nobody but her mother had ever or would ever see him cry.

"Friend," he finally wrote, but the word did not show up in the Soul Book. "Well, she is," he said aloud, and hurried to write that down as well. He wasn't sure what he was trying to prove. "We can be nothing else."

The page flashed red, openly snubbing him.

__

First a temperamental phoenix, and now a temperamental book, Draco thought to himself, and the page flashed red to say, "Deal with it!" _Why me?_

Sighing, Draco returned to writing in the book once more. "There is nothing I can say to convince you otherwise that Ginny Weasley can remain nothing more than a friend, is there? Life for me is too dangerous to be carrying emotional baggage that comes with the boyfriend territory, and she's a marked member of the Order of the Phoenix!"

"So?" flashed back at him.

"So, a relationship like this would be like…_Romeo and Juliet_," Draco finally wrote, casting about for inspiration. He'd plucked those names out the book of Shakespeare's works that Professor Dumbledore had sent him hours before. "I read the synopsis—and they both die! If I die, my soul is gone. Then where would you be? What's a Soul Book without a living soul?"

The book snapped closed, nearly taking his thumb from the rest of his hand. Draco shook out the offended object as he watched the cover shift fill with gold-leafed words. _Potions For When Life Gets You Down: An Intellectual Guide to Your Everyday Needs_ blinked out at him defiantly. Draco was vaguely reminded of the time he had unthinkingly plucked this book from the shelves of Professor Snape's office. Had he known what trouble it was going to be, he would not have touched the Soul Book.

Its very aura reproachful, the Soul Book glided open and lay prostrate against his knees. Draco stared at the tauntingly empty page for a long minute. "We just can't," he wrote at length. "After the dinner on Thursday, it must end."

For a long moment, the book did not reply. Finally, in the tiniest script imaginable, it answered, "Are you sure?"

__

Are you sure? The question echoed in Draco's head, bouncing back and forth between synapses and grey matter until it threatened to overthrow his senses. Closing his eyes, he saw. In that moment of uncertainly, a thousand different scenarios and endings played against the tarp of his own eyelids. Happy endings with normal, successful lives to boot. Jollity. Delight. Empty endings where life had not been reached. Depression. Broken hearts. Living in secret. Broken souls. Smiling children immortalised themselves in Draco's mind, but with them came children that never smiled. They were children with his blond hair, with Ginny's red hair, with brown and silver eyes. Pale, freckled manifestations of humanity.

His ears heard the imaginary tolls of the wedding bells that could come. Behind that, a grating resistance, came the funeral marches, and the grief-ridden fugues. So many happy emotions mingled with the destructive ones, neither staying its hand over the other. It was a gamble, he realised now. A gamble of life and death.

Love.

Hatred.

"She doesn't deserve the punishment of making that choice. She's on the side of good, and I'm all but on the side of evil." Slowly, Draco rested his forehead on his knees, his palms flat against the Soul Book. "She deserves somebody that can be there for her. I may not be able to be that."

A twinge of pain in his palm made him gasp and recoil from the Soul Book. In his abrupt movement, the Soul Book flew from his lap and onto the floor, its binding facing up. Carefully, Draco leaned down and collected it, dreading the message that would be waiting for him.

"That isn't your choice to make," was all the book said. "Don't ever give up something this good when it's not your decision. Play your cards wisely." With those words ingrained into Draco's conscience, the book closed with an air of finality and left young Draco Malfoy with a world of choice on his thin shoulders. 

*   


The lull of familiar voices was just enough to pull Hermione out of the obsidian void and into the physical awareness of her own fateful body. She felt life return first to her fingers, prickling up her arms and down her body, finally gathering on the tips of her toes and head. When the sensation covered her whole form, she let out the softest of gasps and opened her eyes.

It had fallen dark in the time she had been out, she noticed immediately, for she could see nothing. Her body was trapped in what felt like a cocoon of blankets, leaving only her head and neck exposed to the cool Romanian night. She could smell the familiarity of the warehouse, and knew that she was on her cot, although she couldn't see at all. However, she could still hear two very familiar voices continuing a quiet, but intense conversation. Smidley's guttural tones clashed against Lupin's diplomatic ones, causing Hermione to tune her awareness in so that she could hear better. It took her a moment to distinguish words, but she immediately gathered that they had been discussing her.

"Spent nearly a quarter hour in the Realm, and returns unscathed? I find that hard to believe even in your book, Lupin!"

"She wasn't unscathed—there are several abrasions on her face and arms, yet none on her neck. No sign of a vampire's bite…stop putting so much garlic in her food! I've told you before—there's no way he could have made her a vampire in the amount of time that they spent together!"

Smidley thought that she was a vampire? _That would be just like him_, Hermione reflected a trifle bitterly, _to immediately think the worst_. He was as paranoid (and nearly as scarred) as Mad-Eye Moody. Sometimes the similarities were a bit ridiculous in themselves, but Hermione had always found Smidley's sense of humour preferable to Moody's brand of fearful presentation. It took a lot of gumption to actually dislike Smidley.

"Innovations, Lupin, innovations. The vampires are always looking for them. They could have found a way by now. Why _else_ would he entrance somebody into a Calling Circle and leave them mortal? You remember Nick from school—devious, cunning—"

"Your best friend." Lupin's voice was steely. "Smidley, will you just get over the fact that Ryan just wanted to chase his dreams? His existence in the Undead was just an accident, and you're perfectly aware of that. Nicholas Ryan wouldn't throw life away willingly!"

Nicholas Von Blüten was really Nicholas Ryan, and he had attended Hogwarts with _both _Lupin and Smidley? Hermione pushed herself up onto her elbows, her brows lowering dangerously. In her adjusted night-vision, she could see the silhouettes of the two men aglow against the small cooking fire clear across the warehouse. Glancing up through the hole in the ceiling (charmed not to let rain or snow in), Hermione could see that Lyra was nearly at zenith, so it was only near 11 p. m. or so. Most of the freelancers would still be out at the pubs they frequented in the tiny villages nearby. The others would be on assignment.

Lupin's ears pricked at the noise of Hermione's movement, and he turned, gesturing for her to join them. Feeling clumsy and heavy-footed, she padded over and accepted the bowl of generic stew that was passed her way. "How do you feel?" Lupin asked by way of conversation.

Hermione did not like the way that Smidley was eyeing her. "Like I've just had my head wrung through a colander, thanks," she replied honestly. "Did somebody Stun me?"

"Jones. Eager young whelp," Smidley said with a snort, finally tearing his suspicious gaze from her. "Don't know why we took him in the first place…" He passed Hermione a canteen of water. "Drink up—being Stunned usually dehydrates you some."

Three long gulps and half a bowl of stew later, Lupin shifted uneasily and finally cleared his throat. "What exactly happened in the Realm of the Undead? We need to know for scientific purposes, and see if we can get you an antidote for anything they might have done to you. We didn't detect any spells, but…"

"You wouldn't, would you? The same rules don't apply to the Realm of the Undead." Her appetite gone, Hermione pushed the bowl away from her and huddled closer to the fire. She felt cold just thinking about the strange events that had transpired in the other dimension. "Nothing really happened. We talked, mostly. He asked me about Ritualistic Magick…" She stopped, her eyes narrowing. "He said that I was a Guide—that I was to participate in a ritual. I haven't heard a thing about it yet, unless it has something to do with Harry and I've been doing it unthinkingly."

Smidley and Lupin shared an uneasy look that set Hermione on edge. A serpentine snort from nearby interrupted them, reminding Hermione that Smidley's beloved Komodo dragon had yet to retire. Neither the werewolf nor the freelancer jumped, but Hermione froze for the briefest of instants. "The Six-Point Ritual?" Smidley finally asked in a careful voice. "That was always Nick's speciality, yes, so he would know a lot about that. Are you sure that he called you a Guide?"

"Positive. And I'm in the proper astrological time frame for it, aren't I? Virgo?" Hermione looked from one face to the other, both marred with lines of age and amusement. "He wouldn't tell me anything more about it—we started talking about Fate and compulsions. I got quite lost, and he just made me drink this potion—"

"Potion?" demanded Lupin and Smidley on the same breath. "You _drank _a potion that a vampire gave you?" Smidley continued, blue eyes wide with disbelief. "Granger, are you _mad_? Hasn't Lupin taught you better than that?"

"It was a Seeing Sluice! I watched him make it!" Hermione replied, bridling at his accusation. She wasn't lying entirely; she _had_ watched Nick complete the potion, and the ingredients she had seen were those in a Seeing Sluice. Fortunately, neither Lupin nor Smidley called her on the fact that a Seeing Sluice had to simmer for nearly two hours. She had only been in the Realm of the Undead for fourteen minutes, as it was. "He said it was to help me find any entrances into the Realm. Something about the ritual. I don't know."

Both men were clearly trying to digest this information and having difficulty. "Did he, er, drink any of your blood?" Lupin asked, trying another tack.

"He swiped some off of my face," Hermione offered, still feeling repulsed by the gesture. "But, apparently, I wasn't his type." She smiled, trying to relive the pun, but the jollity was too light for such a solemn moment. Finally, she busied herself with taking a long pull from the canteen.

"Why would a vampire draw an innocent girl—a Guide, nonetheless—into the Realm and only give her a potion?" Smidley demanded of Lupin, his low voice guttural. "It just doesn't add up."

Lupin offered no more than a shrug, his face expressionless. "You remember Nick as well as I do. Probably better, even—I was always gone with the Marauders." A thoughtful pause ensued, and Lupin used the silence to poke the fire with a long branch. "He nearly beat James for Head Boy, didn't he?"

James could be none other than James Potter, late father to her best friend. Such casual mention of the long-dead Mr. Potter made Hermione ache all over again for Harry, who was doubtless asleep on his tiny bed on the second floor of number four, Privet Drive. He was probably, Hermione reflected bitterly, ensconced in the wicked claws of some unholy nightmare.

"Yes. Bit of a geek, he was. Always reading," Smidley recalled with narrowed eyes. "Why? What are you getting at, Lupin? I know that look, and it always means that you've got something up your sleeve that I probably won't like."

When Lupin leaned forward, it struck Hermione once again about how different the two men really were. Gryffindor or not, Lupin was going to lean back and assess the situation before jumping in. Smidley would always be impulsive and brash. "You said it before—Nick was fascinated with the Six-Point Ritual. He knew a lot more than most specialists at the age of seventeen. That's why he went to the vampires in the first place, nearly sixteen years ago. He was positive that the movement in the Dark Arts had something to do with the ritual."

"I seriously don't think that Granger here is a Guide, though."

__

Granger the Guide. The alliteration was going to make her either sigh or laugh, and she wasn't sure which yet.

"_Au contraire_, my friend." Lupin shook a finger at Smidley, making Hermione smile inwardly. The werewolf still had his playful moments. "Vampires recognise things like that. If Nick thinks Hermione's a Guide, strong chances are that she's a Guide."

"Who do I have to guide, though?" Hermione demanded, suddenly quite perplexed. "I'm severely confused—apparently this is my fate. But is it? Is fate assigned to one person? Nick was talking about Fate and how it came to dinner and…" She trailed off, realising how ridiculous she sounded. "I'm sorry, the incident must have messed with my mind. "Movements in the Dark Arts? Would those have anything to do with a ritual?"

"I hope not." Lupin took a large bite of his own stew, prompting Hermione to remember her hunger. She drew her bowl back to her, listening intently. "But it could very well be. The dark beings usually aren't this restless. Even other werewolves are sensing tension in the air. I thought it might have been just me, but apparently everybody I've talked to feels it."

"The werewolves, ghosts, nightwolves, a lot of the enchanted mummies, the fairies and pixies, the nymphs…" Smidley ticked off several enchanted creatures on his fingers. "It's as widespread as South America, and even some of the penguin hybrids down in Antarctica have been acting strangely. Reports from all over have been piling up."

Hermione's eyebrows extended low over her eyes. "Do you think," she asked nervously, "that this has something to do with…with Voldemort?"

"Think?" Smidley snorted. "I'd bet my bottom Sickle on it."

"I think," Lupin said, shooting Smidley a _look_, "that there is one man that could explain all of this to us." He looked at Hermione significantly, and in the light of the grey-eyed gaze, she understood what she was getting at.

Smidley looked between one and the other. "You don't think…You're _not_ writing to Nick!"

The werewolf and the Head Girl looked at him as though he had given up protective magic and had taken up ballet instead. "I'll start drafting a letter to Professor Dumbledore immediately," Hermione promised, and rushed off to find her stationery set.

Ron and Harry would have laughed if they knew that her first action after such an event would be to write to Professor Dumbledore, but Hermione knew immediately that it was the right thing to do in this situation. If anybody had any clue what was going on, it would naturally be Professor Dumbledore. 

Wouldn't it?

*

Nicholas Von Blüten looked up from the Muggle newspaper he had lifted on his last trip into the nearest English-speaking town as Fate, the compulsion, walked into the room and lifted both eyebrows at the young vampire. "Ah, my protégé!" Fate cried in obvious delight, a wicked smile lighting the chiselled face. Out of the compulsions, Fate was the handsomest, and his beauty only seemed to magnify whenever his host had a very strong attachment to Fate. "How fares my young blood-sucker this morning?"

Nick did not bother to check his watch. "You're in the wrong time frame, old man," he replied as he returned to the obituaries section of the newspaper. "Morning was hours ago."

"It's always the morning of some new time for somebody!" Fate riposted, clearly amused. Nick forced himself not to roll his eyes and continued scanning the page. He hated dealing with the compulsions, and Fate was particularly challenging. "Today is the morning of Hermione Granger! See how _real_ I am? Almost as alive as I was for that little Harry fellow!"

"Ah. You just missed Ms. Granger, actually. She dropped in for a visit, just like you predicted. It's good that I gave up betting with you. Very strange girl."

Fate looked at hard at the vampire, smoky eyes fathomless as ever. Still, without looking at him, Nick could not help but detect a very large aura of amusement. "You've taken a fancy to a mortal?" he squealed with some delight. Nick struggled not to roll his eyes once again; when Fate became strong enough, he turned out to be very openly homosexual. While Death was quiet and enjoyed a good "Red Cap crosses the road" as much as the next dark being, Fate was very flamboyant and laughed at every single little joke, funny or not. Why couldn't the compulsions get together and decide on a set personality, so that Nick wouldn't have to deal with Fate's odd quirks all the time? Sure, the compulsion had been the one to show the fledgling vampire around the Realm, but even Nick had his limits.

"She's promised to somebody else, _isn't_ she?" Nick asked, his eyebrows raising pointedly. "A red-haired mortal, last I recall? At least, that's what Destiny told me last time she dropped by on the topic of Hermione Granger."

Fate clapped his manicured hands, immediately dismissive of any topics concerning his twin sister. "But of course! However, I _am_ the controller of her fate, and Destiny…only fiddles around a bit. I could nip in if you wanted…"

"And both of you have several other people's fates and destinies in the balance, so don't risk something so great for little old me," Nick replied in his driest voice. "Anyway, I don't fancy brunettes in such a fashion. You just didn't mention that she was a Guide." He folded the paper carefully, his eyes accusative. "Kind of an important fact to leave out even when _you're_ blathering on, isn't that?"

"Importance is in the eye of the beholder." Fate waved this off and trounced over to the table, plucking up several of the candied plums Nick had left out for a purpose. The compulsions could not turn down candied plums if their existence depended on it. Fate had probably smelled the confection from the other side of the cosmos. "I'm sorry that you had to fall for a mortal, though. Your fate isn't kind."

"I don't have one anymore, remember? It doesn't become the Undead." Nick's voice was once again bland. His eyes, however, were entirely too serious in their own right. He had not yet reached forty, but his eyes were those of an elder. "You know, for a thing that controls where most people end up, you have a terrible memory."

"Sue me. My mother was a Greek goddess. They're not known for their sensibility—remember Artemis? Hothead if I ever saw one…"

"I'm sure Orion agrees."

"Yes. Such a delicious morsel he was—too bad Artemis claimed him first…" Fate's eyes narrowed suddenly, and he regarded the vampire with a suspicious. "You're not still on about that ritual, are you? I told you it would happen, didn't I? Isn't that enough for you?"

The vampire sat up, his posture steely and his gaze determined. "I lost my mortality for that ruddy ritual, and all I get is that it will happen? Come, man—or compulsion, or whatever you feel like being today—even Irony's not _that _cruel! Surely you can tell me _something_!"

"Irony was always a bit of a wimp, now that I think about it…"

Nick's look told the compulsion that he was clearly not amused.

"Well, you can't blame me entirely! I _did_ send you a Guide!"

"A clueless one! She may be quick and intelligent by mortal standards, but she next to nothing about whom would partake in the ritual! Oh, she could bore one to death with useless facts _that I already knew_, but what good does that do anybody? Who's the Initiator? The Brother? The Foe we know…"

"Only because his lifeline has been kept in the Realm," Fate hastened to point out. "Nicholas, there are certain things even _I_ don't know, and I do not discriminate between Undead and mortal! Everybody comes through me!"

One of the positive sides of being a vampire was the ability to see through lies. "The Undead do not. Stop saying that. Instead of charging you rent in the Realm, we have you delete our files, remember? Of course, if you want to go back to the Old Ways, I'm sure we can start charging you rent again. I'm sure it wouldn't be too much trouble…but then, how many first-borns does a compulsion have?"

Fate managed to look contrite, a respectable feat considering his personality and ruthlessness. He made the bloodthirsty Blood Clan of the Transylvanian region look like generous charity workers. At least the Von Blüten clan was selective about who they allowed to join their ranks, Nick thought derisively as he looked down at his hands. They had once been callused and rugged, but now they did nothing but reflect his pallor.

The air changed as the contrite look disappeared among the smooth, tempered skin. "Heir to the Von Blüten Clan or not, you're a pretty crafty lad, aren't you?" Fate asked, his smile just a bit too wide. "You're really not in any position to make any decisions for the clan, are you?"

Nick was not fazed. "A few," he answered honestly. "The important ones. It won't be long before the head of the Von Blüten Clan either gets stabbed by his own wooden stake or just gives up the title to me. My first decision will involve compulsions and food."

Fate stopped, a handful of candied plums halfway to his partially open mouth. "You wouldn't!" he protested, eyes drawing into narrow slits.

There was nothing for Nick to do but raise a challenging eyebrow. "Would I?" A terribly uncharacteristic smile came from him, more suited for a cat's intelligent gaze than his own. "Trying my patience right now would not be the wisest course of action."

Instead of becoming annoyed at this, however, Fate did the unpredictable and broke out into a genuine grin. On his pointed, conniving features, the smile looked somewhat sinister. "My protégé has learned!" he cried happily, and clapped Nick on the shoulder. The young vampire jumped despite himself. "When you came here from the mortal lands, you knew nothing of the under-workings of magic and sarcasm! In less than two decades, I have taught you mastery!"

"There are hardly words to express my gratitude. Now, I know that you know something about the Six-Point Ritual that you're not telling me. Think carefully and remember those plums you're so happily stuffing down your trap."

Fate popped yet another candied plum into his mouth and chewed while he considered this. "Well," he said, drawing out the word, "I guess there _might _be a titbit of information I could share with my fledgling apprentice…"

Nick didn't bother to hide his eye-roll this time.

"I could, perhaps, find it within myself to share the identity of the Sleeper…"

"Perhaps?"

Little did either the compulsion or the vampire know that miles away in another realm, this very same topic was on the minds of two men. There was no comfortable setting with candied plums; no, this matter was spoken about in utmost secrecy. Not even a cricket would bother to chirp on such a conversation as the two men leaned forward over a parchment full of details. They each sat in silence for a long time, digesting the news that the parchment brought in his own separate way. One was sombre, the other scowling.

Sage Headmaster Albus Dumbledore looked up from the letter delivered expressly from Romania. His companion, Severus S. Snape, glanced up as well, although his eyes were dark. Neither said anything for a long moment, each still trapped in a different world of thought. Finally, Albus cleared his throat.

"It has begun in earnest."

*

A/N the Second: Yeah, this chapter kind of wrote itself. I hadn't really intended Hermione to meet any vampires, Nick created himself, and Fate just butted his way in. Proves me wrong for trying to write my own story! Plotline? What's that? Oh, dear, I suppose I might need one of those…Oh, yeah, if you want to see Fate in real life, watch _Sweet Home Alabama_. He's the gay guy in New York—the fashion designer whose name escapes me at the moment. I made the mistake of watching that and then writing a scene where Fate's character was open to debate.

Anyway, be a dear and review! Shout-outs go to Linda and Krishna for being so awesome!


	8. Close Encounters of the First Kind

A/N: This chapter was a bear to write, mostly because this is the one chapter I didn't want to write. I hate writing fluff, let it be known. 

__

I don't believe in panic

I don't believe in fear

I don't believe in prophecies

So don't waste any tears

I don't believe reality would be

The way it should

But I believe in fantasy

If you just understood

- _Believe_, _Run Lola Run _Soundtrack

****

Close Encounters of the First Kind

__

Chapter Eight

"Great, just great."

Seminar for students from all over the world or not, St. Lawrence's did enforce a very strict curfew for the students not staying in one of the many hotels St. Louis had to offer.

Draco was unlucky enough to find this out the hard way.

He stood at the bottom of a very large brick wall surrounding the first few floors of Trenton Hall, where the young men who attended St. Lawrence's for any reason at all slept. The building was expansive—eight floors of nothing but tiny cubicles containing two boys each. Two slat beds, two smallish desks, two lamps, and too many rats to count: every dormitory's paradise. On the inside, it looked as though it had never passed up the year 1940. Everything was dark, grim, and strangely musty, with the smell of being lived-in always present. Breathing, chatter, music, noise in general—it all mixed into one unequivocally present roar. The lull, combined with the never-ending humidity, was enough to drag anybody into an incoherent stupor.

Outside, it just looked like an impregnable fortress forged from pitted, grey stone. Which, Draco discovered, was most certainly not an illusion after eleven o'clock at night. All three sets of heavy iron doors were locked with bolts _and_ magic, and it thoroughly looked like the attendant on duty wasn't answering the courtesy phone located outside. There was simply nobody to let him in.

_Well, mate,_ he thought to himself as he stood aglow in the amber effulgence of a nearby streetlight, _you could always go get a hotel for the night._ However, he didn't think that hotels in the area technically accepted Galleons or Sickles, wizarding or not. In the Midwestern United States, they seemed to _enjoy_ using foreign Muggle currency, and from what Draco gathered, purely wizard establishments were hard to come by in this part of the city. St. Lawrence's, as he had come to understand, functioned as an oasis in the middle of a be-Muggled world.

Draco cursed under his breath and checked his watch. It was nearing midnight, he was out in a foreign place—alone—and he was seven kinds of exhausted. The meeting with yet another mysterious benefactor of Voldemort's had taken a lot more than he had expected from him, especially after the liquor and brandy had been brought into the parlour. As a guest and a Death Eater-to-be, he was expected to have at least one, even though he tried to avoid alcohol. Alcohol was what made Lucius a demon on nights that he consumed too much. One glass had turned into another glass, and then yet another.

So here he was, a bit tipsy, a little lost, and definitely locked out of the room he had been staying in for only a day and half.

"You know, you're lucky you've got somebody looking out for you."

He didn't have to turn to recognise the voice; two years of playing back-to-back on the same Quidditch team, and shouting insults at each other the whole time, definitely meant that he knew how to recognise the voice of Malcolm Baddock when he heard it.

However, that didn't make him a happy man when he _did _recognise the voice.

Now, he swung about a little crazily with the liquor in his blood stream making him totter the slightest bit, and glared with every scrap of dignity he possessed. "What are _you _doing here?"

Baddock had been leaning back in the shadows, black Muggle clothing enabling him to blend in easily. Draco could clearly make out the slightest tremors of a smirk quaking about the corner of his lips, even though half of the other young man's face was obscured by the shadows that hid him so effectively. "Didn't you know? I've been sent to St. Louis to…watch your back. Your father feels that you're going to screw it up somehow, so I'm here."

"My father feels." Draco actually snorted. "Didn't know you were such a ruddy comedian." He eyed the other young man angrily and snorted again. "You look like a bloody Muggle." Not really sure as to what he was doing, he reached one hand out and grabbed a protruding stone above his head. He released the outcropping long enough to remove his sports-jacket and fling that into a silken pile at the base of the wall. Grabbing up the outcropping once again, he pulled his weight up. "Since you're here, make yourself useful. Climb!"

Baddock's expression turned to amusement when Draco nearly slipped and tumbled from the wall. "After you," he said graciously, watching Draco inch up. After a couple of minutes, he began his own rocky path up the side of Trenton Hall, a wall which had been undoubtedly climbed by boys of all ages since the 1940's. Unlike Draco, his blood was mostly blood and didn't contain any vile toxic chemicals, enabling him to climb much easier. There were a couple of near-misses during the second floor involving a pigeon and what Baddock believed later to be a hallucination, but they actually reached Draco's windowsill in one piece.

"_Alohamora_," Draco slurred, and pushed the window open. He tumbled in, followed shortly by Baddock.

"_Draco_?"

This was just the night for surprises, Draco thought ungraciously as he stood up and brushed off the expensive pants. Why did everything have to happen when he was tipsy, for the love of Midas? He squinted into the darkness for the telltale glimmer of red, and found it sitting at his desk—in the dark. "What are you doing in here?" The question was mainly forged from curiosity, but it came out sounding slurred and grouchy. Draco stretched out one long, pale arm, and flicked the lamp-switch.

Ginny blinked owlishly at him. It was obvious that she had fallen asleep at his desk, for her eyes were unfocused and her hair was tousled. There were bright red marks across her forehead from the fabric of her sleeves, and her arms were still folded over the books on which she fallen asleep. Still, despite the mussed and unfocused appearance, she was lucid enough to say, "You just climbed a wall while sloshed, didn't you?"

"And what great fun it was," Baddock said, climbing to his own feet and scowling in Draco's direction. He actually froze at the sight of Ginny, before rounding angrily on Draco. "You consort with Gryffindors?! And—and—_Weasleys_?"

Exhaustion nearly toppled Draco into the slat bed as he took in the wild range of personas in his dormitory room in the middle of the bloody United States of bloodier America, with too much liquor in his stomach, a newly-climbed wall on his record, and more explaining than he cared to do in store. He shook his head at this predicament and crossed back to the window. "_Accio_ Jacket!" Once the jacket was crumpled up in a pile at the foot of his bed, he turned to Baddock. "Baddock, meet Ginny Weasley. Ginny, this is the bloke that has been the personal pain in my ruddy posterior for the past ten years. We met when I was seven, if you'll believe it. He's only got more annoying since."

"Says the prat," Baddock snorted, taking a seat on the other bed. Draco was pleased to notice that he looked as worn out as the Malfoy heir felt. "Since when do you associate with Weasleys?"

Ginny had been silent during this exchange, but now she spoke up. "He doesn't associate with most Weasleys. I'm different." Her eyes narrowed as she looked at Baddock, and Draco found himself increasingly grateful that he had done nothing to incur that look in the past two days. It was Wednesday night, two nights after the day that he had asked Ginny to go to dinner with him. That was plenty of time for him to stick his foot into his mouth and even swallow it, but he had done no such thing. "What are _you_ doing here?"

Baddock's shrug was insolent. "Got nothing better to do. What about you?"

"I'm here on a Hogwarts scholarship."

There was a dull thud as Draco's body finally hit the mattress. He closed his eyes, wishing the world would stop spinning. Had he been aware that he resembled a train wreck, he would have undoubtedly cast some sort of temporary glamour. "I don't mean to sound rude, Gin, but you never did say what you were doing in my room."

"Liz smuggled me in so that I could talk to you about tomorrow." Ginny glanced at Baddock, obviously not wanting to discuss her entire reason in front of him. "Do you know where Fawkes is?"

Now Draco opened one eye. "How should I know where he is? Bloody bird's been following me everywhere—it's creepy, I tell you."

While most people would have been annoyed at his rather stiff mood, Ginny just smiled and shook her head. "I'll leave it on your desk, then, and talk to you tomorrow. You _will _be eating lunch with the rest of us, right?"

Draco's answer was an empty shrug. "Should be."

"All right, then. I'll see you tomorrow. It was…nice…meeting you…Malcolm, was it?" Ginny glanced questioningly between Baddock and Draco, but Draco was now turned away from her, half-asleep.

"Call me 'Baddock.' Everybody does." Baddock's tone was grudging, as though he couldn't help but like Ginny.

"All right. Baddock, then. Good night, boys." And with that, Ginny stepped out, leaving the note she had mentioned on the desk. 

Draco turned over and watched the door swing shut with an unreadable expression. "I shouldn't be getting her into this," he told Baddock, and then rolled over once more, turning his back to the other boy. He was not interested in starting heartfelt conversations with bratty Baddock. "If either of us is going to get _any _sleep, better turn out that lamp."

"You think?" were the last words he heard before he drifted off to sleep, ironically before the lamp was turned off.

*

Severus Snape turned irritably as the door to the Potions classroom opened, but the face melted away easily once he saw the form of the Headmaster standing in the doorway. "Albus," he greeted almost warily, always reverent of the man who had pulled him from so many predicaments. "You're just in time to see the outcome of my research. Miss Granger's letter confirms it all indeed."

Albus Dumbledore moved into the scant light of the dungeon, the cane that he carried in the summer always tap-tapping in front of him like an unwanted friend. It made him feel older, he claimed, so he hardly carried it around when the students were at Hogwarts. Their youth helped buoy him against the onslaught of old age. "Have you now, Severus?" he asked slowly, looking up at the blackboard. Instead of potions ingredients, it listed a very odd assortment of symbols. "And has your research proved what we have felt all along?"

Severus pushed irascibly at the nagging feeling that started at the base of his throat. "Yes, yes, of course. Down to the very last prediction." He moved to the left portion of the chalkboard, where a great number of insensible drawings littered across the plane in apparently random effect. "If Miss Granger's letter proves true, it was indeed a variant of Arigone's most popular ritual that they used in creating the heir."

Wise blue eyes drank in the drawings. "What makes you say it was a variant, Severus? I'm not doubting you, but we can't entirely disclose the actual ritual itself from this equation."

"The variables," and here Severus tapped a pentagon encircling a sixth point in the centre, "just don't fit the actual ritual. If we were to, erm, mutate the ritual, then they would be nothing but a perfect fit." He tapped a parallelogram now, with two identical points of the centre. "Given the fact that one of the ritual members was dead before the ritual even happened, and then the rest were too young to speak, much less chant, I'd have to say that it would be impossible to use without voodoo magic—which is imprecise as it is."

"And here I was, thinking that your speciality was Potions," Albus remarked drolly, a lingering half-smile on his face present even as he looked over the equations. "So have you figured out _who _the variables are?"

For this, Severus moved to the right half of the chalkboard, his dusty fingers trailing along the drawings until he located a cluster of several. "If I've given myself large enough of a margin of error—and I'm inclined to think that I did—I'd have to say that these symbols right here represent the different participants in the ritual."

There were six figures in all, the most any Arithmancist had been able to draw for years. Most were only able to figure out the given variable, which was the Lover. "The Lover is female, yes?" Albus asked, studying the symbol. "Red hair, fiery disposition…hm, indeed." He smiled almost nostalgically. "This should be an interesting summer."

"If events play out as they should, it will be more than interesting," Severus promised dourly, his pasty face set quite nastily. "One of them is bound to destroy this ritual entirely. My wager is on Miss Granger. They'll all be dead for sure."

"Our esteemed Head Girl, Severus? Surely you're taking the ancient Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry too far," Albus suggested mildly, not in the least put out by the Potion Master's dire predictions.

Severus pulled at his lip, an old habit from his school days. "You can't deny it, Albus. She may be the cleverest witch to come through this school since perhaps Rowena Ravenclaw herself, but she freezes up under pressure. Is it possible for her to blindly follow a pre-set destiny? I highly doubt it."

Now Albus's smile turned towards inner amusement. "And you're positive that you're not holding a grudge, seeing as she defeated your logic test as a mere first-year?"

Head tilted fractiously, Severus eyed his old mentor with something akin to dislike. "Did I not just say that she's quite the exceptional student, Albus?" he asked, his tone annoyed. Seeing nothing similar to indemnity in the Headmaster's wrinkled face, he let out a sigh. "Very well, Albus. If you have faith in the girl, then I do so as well. Let's hope that you aren't forced to eat your own words."

"Nothing tastes as foul as one's own words," Albus acknowledged with a nod. "Now, explain the Mentor to me…I fear I just don't see how this is possible…"

*

"Do you mind?"

Up until that point, Meg had been perched very studiously over some kind of textual handbook, her reading glasses slipping slowly down her long nose. She pushed them back up as she looked over at him, her expression cross. Draco just looked back at her, his own expression curious. "You're _tapping _again," she pointed out.

Draco looked down at the culprit—his foot—as Liz let out a muffled snicker from her own chair. The three of them were waiting in the lounge at the end of Ginny's floor, a room spotted with a hodgepodge assembly of old, dilapidating couches and armchairs. Liz was sitting sideways in an armchair, legs slung over one side and back resting against the other. She was reading another handbook. "Leave him alone, Meg, he's nervous!"

"I'm not—" Draco began.

"She just hates it when people tap their feet like that," Liz explained with a smile, cutting him off. She buried herself in the pages of her book and pretended not to notice his irate look. He was _not_ nervous—his early lunch just wasn't agreeing with him, that was all. Yes, that was it. Unconsciously, his leg started to jiggle again, forcing the heel of his nice shoe to click against the ground rhythmically.

"If you don't stop that," Meg swore, "I'm going to castrate you with a pair of dull scissors!"

Draco stopped. Quickly.

"You're lucky," Liz observed without looking up from her book. "Last time it was her dead great-grandmother's rusty old garden-shears."

Draco looked from one American to the other, wondering if they had secretly abducted Ginny into their sisterhood. Never had any girl back in Britain promised to remove his masculinity with an instrument her great-grandmother had once used for a daily chore. America just seemed to provide an entirely new breed of witches, and Draco wasn't sure if he liked the saucy attitude they presented in contrast to the traditional British attitude. But wasn't that the reason he liked Ginny to begin with? She was different than any of the witches back home, wasn't she? Draco suppressed a smile; Ginny was _definitely_ a far cry from anybody like Pansy Parkinson or that horrible Lavender Brown from Gryffindor.

His smile quickly turned into a frown as he glanced at his watch. "What's taking her so long?" he asked impatiently, knowing that the Greys wouldn't wait long for the pair of them.

"Make them wait," Liz said as she turned a page. "It's a girl's greatest secret."

"_Liz_!" Meg looked scandalised, as though Liz had shared some great occultist conspiracy and betrayed all womankind. Draco looked from one to the other, confused and not willing for either of them to know about it.

Liz snorted audibly. "Oh, come on, Meg. Even though men are clueless, after centuries of this trick, one of them is bound to pick it up!" Draco shifted at the defamation of his gender, but allowed himself to smile distractedly as Meg stuck her tongue out at Liz in a very mature move. There was really nothing he could say in defence to his gender. It was no wonder why Ginny had picked this pair to befriend; they were humorous and overly silly, but strangely mature in their own way. Hogwarts girls tended to prove themselves to be empty-headed and dull before the second date. Meg and Liz could keep Draco laughing for hours. However, right _now_, he had other things to do.

"Can one of you go get her? We _do_ have an appointment to keep up," Draco said, wondering if he were breaching etiquette by enlisting outside help to break the wait. "I know it's tradition and all…"

Meg snickered, much to Draco's irritation. He fidgeted again, sitting up straighter and moving his legs so that the backs of his feet rested against the couch. "Oh, we're just pulling your leg, you know. You're making yourself a very easy target."

"Well, thank you." Not sure how he should take this unrequited teasing, Draco just settled for being politely distant. "Now, can one of you _please _go get her? We're on a tight schedule, and the whole deal may fall through if we're late. _That's _the sort of people we're dealing with tonight."

"All right." Meg made a show of stretching luxuriously and sauntering down the hallway. Draco scowled after her, wondering exactly how she could afford to be so nonchalant about the whole deal. The Greys, an old wizarding couple that had fled to the United States some decades before, were distantly related to Draco through his mother's side of the family. That would not give Draco any leeway for tardiness, he knew, for his mother's side of the family was always prompt and polite. Draco had been severely chastised on his last visit to his grandparents' manor for being thirty seconds late for breakfast.

They were still apparently very bitter that their sweet little Narcissa had married the 'derelict' Lucius Malfoy, and that Draco had resulted. Perhaps they saw him as just another layabout, fully eager and willing to fall into the footsteps of both his father and Voldemort.

Draco let out a soft snort at how wrong they all were.

The sound of approaching footsteps made him glance up sharply. While Liz chuckled quietly at him, he watched the arching doorway, a cold sweat blossoming across his forehead and along the back of his neck. This waiting trick was far too effective for it's own right. Feeling far more aggravated than he had felt possible, he stood up.

"May I present," Meg cried, springing through the door, "a Miss Guinevere Weasley!"

"It's _Ginny_, you twit!" Ginny appeared in the same doorway, glaring at Meg in frustration. 

All notions of punctuality flew from Draco's mind, leaving nothing but a stuttering vacuum behind. For a moment, he felt too incompetent to do naught but stare. She was there, she had not walked out on him, she was looking hard at Meg, and she was _beautiful_. He felt as though somebody had socked him in the stomach, and nothing existed there anymore. Breathing had suddenly become unnecessary. Outwardly, he knew that the black dress she had managed to find was simply cut, and not very extravagant as far as dresses went. But his two selves were in accordance about one thing: Ginny _made_ the dress look like it should be worn by no lesser than the goddess Aphrodite. 

Everything existed in a tunnel, it seemed, with Draco at one end and Ginny kilometres away at the other. At that moment, she was turned partially away from him, laughing at something one of her friends had said. He did not care; his eyes did not move from where they were fastened wholly on her face, radiant from her inner glow…

Just as his eyes moved down the porcelain slope of her neck, she turned her head the barest of angles and caught his smile with hers. She did not seem to notice that he was stunned by her every movement, which was, Draco reflected to himself, probably a good thing. Malfoys were never supposed to be love-struck fools, after all. Hurriedly breaking his trance in the wake of that thought, Draco straightened his tie and moved over to where the three girls had gathered.

Malfoys also did not date Weasleys. So why did he care?

_I don't_, he told himself in a stern voice, and smiled widely at her. "You look absolutely breathtaking," he offered with all sincerity. Distantly, he heard giggling: Meg, no doubt.

The best thing about Ginny's smile was that it lit up from the inside, starting around her eyes and slowly encompassing her face in a steady glow. Draco had heard about such radiance before—as a child, he had never been above picking up whatever highly romanced magazine his mother was reading and drinking in a few pages—but never before had he believed it existed. Now he reached out to touch one of the curls of red that had already escaped from the bun she had pulled her hair into. "You're almost too beautiful," he whispered more to himself.

The flush that he would tire of rose in full force, but her voice was surprisingly level as she said, "Thank you," as though young men in elegant suits complimented her every day.

"Does he have a brother?" Meg asked Ginny, drawing a none-too-gentle nudge from Liz and a bemused smile from Ginny.

"No, only child," Draco answered for her, still playing with the curl. His expression turned thoughtful as his hand stopped moving. For the briefest moment, he was reminded of his first taste of red wine: how the wine had sparkled like nothing else when held up to the light. Ginny's hair colour, while not identical the rest of her family's, was rather unique (excepting Meg), and would stand out like a beacon. It would not take much for Voldemort to trace her on just her hair colour alone. He cleared his throat and released the tendril. "Would you be terribly offended if I asked you to change your hair colour for a few hours?"

Liz made a noise in the back of her own throat. "It _does _stand out," she told Meg, who looked scandalised that Draco would dare ask such a question. "Perhaps, if you'd let me, Gin, I could hue it down a bit."

"Would you?" Ginny asked gratefully. Obviously, her quick mind had quickly worked out _why _exactly Draco felt the need to change her hair colour. "Luckily, I was stuck with plain brown eyes—nothing standing out _there_."

Although Draco wanted to protest that he likedher eyes, he knew that Meg would just twitter over that. While he liked Ginny's new friends, he tended to dislike twittering. It reminded him too much of his mother trying to play Super-Mother, a sickening game in its own right. He opted to wait patiently as Liz withdrew her wand from its specialised holster and muttered a hair-changing charm, slowly darkening Ginny's hair to a medium brunette. "Come find me first thing in the morning, and I'll remove it," Liz promised, holstering her wand. "Now, you two kids go out and have fun. If I hear the pair of you have been drinking, there'll be hell to pay—drinking age here is twenty-one!"

"Yes, mother," Meg replied for the pair, prompting chuckling all around. "Now, c'mon, _Mom_, you're going to help me with my notes on diaries." She started to usher Liz from the room, but stopped before they reached the doorway. "_Be careful_," she warned Draco and Ginny in a low voice. Before either had time to reply, however, the Americans had ambled from the room and out of sight.

"Well," Draco said in the wake of silence the pair left behind, "that was interesting. You certainly choose _very_ odd people to befriend."

"No stranger than the young man that trips over himself asking me on a date, and walks in with so much self-confidence that I wonder if he's hiding something," Ginny pointed out mildly, taking his arm and starting to pull him towards the staircase. The glow had faded to a mere light of amusement in her eyes, Draco noted with some disappointment. Although he was entranced by the sight of that glow, he would have to make do with that.

"It's the suit," he told her, tugging on a lapel with a free hand. "Much as I spent most of my Hogwarts career trying to prove I was made of bigger stuff than I was, I'm more than liable to trip over myself and cause a scene than you know."

Ginny actually wrinkled her nose, but it did nothing to ruin the charm her face still held. Whenever his mother scowled, or made expressions like that, they were ugly and out of place. On Ginny, they were just sincere, even on the days when she was trapped in her own pessimism. Luckily, those days were few and far between. Meeting Liz and Meg had been kind of a therapy for her. "You're being awfully flippant about that," she remarked now. "Doesn't it bother you at all? I mean, you _hated _Gryffindors, and suddenly, you're taking me to—where is it we're going?"

"The _Maison du Magique_," Draco supplied easily, eager to draw the conversation away from where it was hurling. "It's in New Orleans, so we'll have to catch a portkey."

"House of Magic. How appropriate." Ginny paused. "Wait, New Orleans?"

"Yes—it's quite a ways south of here." Draco held the door open and blinked into the late afternoon sunlight. "I always forget how bright it is out here. It's the same time in New Orleans, so this dinner will be an early one." Even as he talked, he removed a small box from his pocket and showed her the portkey, a rose pin that he had picked up in an old antique shop. Because they had both been raised in the wizarding world, neither needed any preamble; they touched the portkey at the same time, and were off.

*

The fires had barely died down to a guttural cacophony of popping embers and the last cracklings of nearly spent wood as the figures made their way into the parlour room. There were five, two especially tall, one short and stocky, and two of medium builds that claimed no importance. Shadows from the expiring flames, combined with the cumbersome dark robes that adorned all five, succeeded in hiding the identity of any of the members to any phantom hiding within.

Grunting an apology, one of the taller members separated himself from the group to stoke the flames with his wand. Instantly, the room brightened in colour, but darkened in spirit as the slumped, defeated postures of the group became more obvious. The owner of the parlour was the first to remove his mask. Lucius Malfoy's cold, haughty face sneered out at the rest of the coterie as he slowly shucked off the black gloves that hid pale hands from any of the Muggle victims. "I trust you've all made timely arrivals from your assorted tasks, gentlemen?"

The short and stocky man, revealed by the removal of his mask to be Peter Pettigrew, moved immediately to a sideboard. "Assigned tasks, Lucius? Most of us had the night off—your call interrupted my sleep." He returned with a tray of port and glasses, eyebrows raised at the master of Malfoy Manor. "I trust it's important?"

"Asleep at eleven o'clock, Wormtail?" Demetrius Reginald, a close confidante of Lucius Malfoy, jeered mockingly. "My, that's keeping the spirit of evil on its toes. Do you read yourself a bedtime story before you go to sleep, rat?"

Victor Crabbe gave Wormtail a warning look before the shorter man could start anything. "We agreed not to fight even outside of our master's company," his low voice rumbled with caution, as though Voldemort was indeed listening to him at that very moment. Big-boned, but never heavyset, he was handsome in a Germanic sort of way. He played the political court while Lucius kept everybody well funded. "Demetrius, keep that forked tongue behind your teeth for now."

Beside him, his long-time best friend Gunther Goyle, grunted an agreement. "Malfoy, what have you called us here for? I'm still under Ministry-surveillance, you know. I can't just pop in and out like the old days. They'll start to suspect if I take too long."

"You'll hardly have to worry about that tonight," Lucius told him coolly. "Lord Voldemort has taken some of the new recruits out on a raid."

"Mere babes that quiver at the sight of blood, I wouldn't doubt," Demetrius remarked disparagingly, black eyes flickering over at Crabbe and Goyle once. Lucius wondered idly if Crabbe was going to receive any retaliation for his warning words to Demetrius. Hopefully, the sinister Death Eater would be too busy with the upcoming assignment to focus on making Crabbe's life less than pleasant. "But I digress. Are we here to discuss the situation with Luca, Malfoy?"

Lucius's cold face twisted into a superior smirk not unlike the one every Malfoy had adorned since the beginning of time. He accepted the glass of port that Wormtail held out, and swished that around in the glass while he pondered his answer. "No. Our mission tonight has only to do with the boy. Draco."

Crabbe looked at him suspiciously. "Don't you mean—"

"He means _Draco_, fool!" Demetrius hissed, cutting him off. The serpentine Death Eater straightened quite irritably. "You know better than to discuss plans like this so openly, Crabbe. Now shut your trap, and listen!"

Goyle gave Demetrius a threatening look, but was willing to let the harsh words drop on the occasion of Lucius's imminent news. Demetrius gave him a short glare in return. His eyes flicked momentarily over the still-silent fifth member, the recently dishonoured Damien Baddock. Lucius, following his gaze, could hardly stop his sneer. The only reason that the Damien the Failure was still alive was his son—and he'd done little to treat the goods with respect, Lucius knew. He'd seen the way the Baddock boy cowered in front of his father.

Not that Lucius was an ideal role model. But Draco would thank him for it one day.

"Tomorrow begins what we hope will be the final rise of the Greatest Dark Lord of all time. Lord Voldemort himself has Divined this day," Lucius announced, assured that he had the attention of the entire group. "And we, gentlemen, are going to be just the lords to deliver that power into his hands. Preparations for the boy have already been made, and are just waiting for you, Demetrius and Wormtail, to be dispatched to America. Should things in this meeting go well, you will be leaving within the next half-hour."

Wormtail looked slightly stunned that he was going to make such a long trip, when he had only been expecting perhaps a casual drink with colleagues. Demetrius's face showed nothing but a mephitic half-smile. "Here's to hoping," he said, raising the glass of port that Wormtail had just passed to him. "Is it just the boy?"

"And my son," Damien said, finally speaking. "He's fled over there—for what reasons, I have no idea. I was not aware that they were friendly, your son and mine, Lucius."

Lucius eyed him opaquely. "They aren't." That was enough to quiet the blathering fool's comments. "You're to train your son, you know that. Geena knew that. We haven't the time—"

"Geena's dead, or haven't you got the memo?" Damien snapped sarcastically, rising to his feet. He was a man of rather average proportions; perhaps the most striking thing about him was his ponytail. "I never wanted my son involved."

"You had little choice, didn't you?" Demetrius hissed, effectively shutting the shorter man up. "Fate doesn't look at the wishes of the parent—I could tell you that better than most." His own son had been lost in the first siege of Voldemort's a fact of which Demetrius was both proud and regretful. "What your son is—it's not something that could be _helped_, as I'm sure you're aware." He fixed the ruined man with the iciest Malfoy glare he could muster. "If you'll be so kind as to stifle that obnoxious trap of yours until your orders are assigned."

Damien did so, obviously sulking.

"Goyle, you and Crabbe will need to prepare the chamber. We've discussed this before, have we not?" Lucius looked from one face to another, seeing understanding in only one. "Oh, well, Goyle, be sure to fill Crabbe in." A nod was enough to assure him, and he turned back to the matter at hand. "Now, gentlemen, I will explain in very clear detail what is about to happen…"

*

Business dinners were very boring, Ginny found out the hard way.

The restaurant—the _Maison Du Magique_—was a very nice one, possibly the classiest place she had set foot in since the time she had been dragged to dinner with the Minister of Magic with her father as a small child. They were on a terrace off of the main ballroom, a pleasant area that smelled of scented candles. It was cool even in the muggy Louisiana heat, for the restaurant proprietors obviously used several cooling spells. If she craned her neck slightly, Ginny could get a very breathtaking view of New Orleans at its fullest. Faint music from the verandas below trickled to her ears, providing an ample backdrop for the rather stale conversation. How Draco wasn't bored, she would never know.

The Greys were nice enough people, she had found out from the start. Of course, Lana Grey bore a striking resemblance to Narcissa Malfoy (whom Ginny had seen at the Quidditch Cup before her third year), but that was only in appearance. She was a rather kind old woman, not directly grandmother material, but one could tell that she loved both her son and her husband. Hector Grey was not so kindly, but he was certainly not impolite. Geoffrey Grey, their only son, had accompanied them. He was maybe a year older than Draco, but nowhere as tall or lanky. No, Geoffrey Grey had what Ginny would describe as a charmingly normal face, with evenly spaced blue eyes and sandy hair. He looked like a younger, less gruff version of his father.

Lana's charm had lasted through most of the salad, and then the soup courses, but it had slowly died out as Draco and Hector started to talk business. Most of the terms that they were using flew right over Ginny's head, so she answered Lana's enquiries politely, and even conversed with Geoff. He had been a student at St. Lawrence's, but he was studying at, oddly enough, the Magical University of Illinois. His major, he told Ginny, was Divination, with a minor in Arithmantic Studies.

"Isn't that contradictory?" Ginny had asked, quite surprised. "Divination is so imprecise—" 

Geoff laughed quietly, taking care not to interrupt his father's conversation. It was obvious that he was used to such dinners, although he hardly seemed like the type that would support the Death Eating cause. "No, no, what I hope to do is study the fields, not practice them. I've often found Diviners to be utter fruit bats," and a picture of Professor Trelawney came so strongly into Ginny's mind that she was forced to stifle a giggle, "or problematic children. I want to study the genetics of it all. What _makes _a Diviner?"

"Now you've started him," Lana remarked with a small smile. "He won't shut up for hours. Why don't you two take a spin on the dance floor and talk about that there? I'm sure Draco won't mind."

Draco looked up with interest at his name, and glanced fleetingly at Geoff. "Shouldn't be a problem," he said, shifting his gaze to Ginny. The ice-grey seemed to be chipped with blue flakes, slightly wider than usual. Ginny blinked at him, but he did not appear to notice. "I'll just finish up here, and steal my date back then."

Geoff actually grinned at Draco, which very few people outside of Slytherin did. He and Draco had really hit it off at the beginning of the dinner, talking about minor differences between British and American Quidditch. Hector had cut that conversation short just as Ginny was beginning to get interested. Now Geoff clapped Draco on the shoulder, making the other boy jump. "Don't need to worry about my intentions, or anything. I'm engaged—my fiancée will be here in about twenty minutes. She herself had a meeting to attend, about her team. I'm sure you'd like her—she plays Keeper for the Sacramento Bees."

That explained the empty space in between Geoff and his mother, then. Ginny glanced at Draco, and was amused to find the slightest amount of relief present on his features. _Jealous prat_, she thought affectionately, and followed Geoff out into the main ballroom.

This was evidently a very popular establishment, for the dance floor was very full of couples foxtrotting this way and tangoing that. "You have to love the wizarding style of dancing," Geoff remarked ruefully as a couple tangoed by them, very flamboyantly. The man had a rose, thorns and all, clutched in his teeth in a very cheesy imitation of Muggles. "I think this beat's good for a simple waltz, though. Probably lucky for me—I've got two left feet."

"Better than having three," Ginny remarked as they started to waltz. She was only about an inch shorter than Geoff, surprisingly. He had seemed a lot taller while they were at the table. "At least, that's what my brother says. He'd be very interested in your major, I think. He actually _liked _Divination."

"You've got a brother, then?" Geoff asked curiously, leading her easily in the waltz despite his supposed two left feet.

Ginny opened her mouth, about to answer that she had six older brothers, but decided against that very quickly. She was Ginny Martin for the evening, not Ginny Weasley. They had given her an ambiguously pureblooded family name, in fear that the Greys might recognise the Weasley name. "Yes, I've got two older brothers. Percy and Bill. I haven't seen Bill in years," she lied. "Percy's the one that likes Divination."

"Sounds like a smart guy," Geoff joked.

"Oh, he is!" Ginny said before she could stop herself. "He was Head Boy at our school, and if he could have kept going with school, he would have. Magic's not the same over in Britain. Hogwarts is the highest level of education we have."

"Oh, I'm sure _magic _is the same, but the school systems aren't." That naturally kicked off a conversation involving the differences between British and American magical systems, down to the functions of the Governor of Magic, and the Minister of Magic. "Ministers belong in churches over here," Geoff joked when Ginny mentioned Cornelius Fudge. "We've got a Governor that controls everything for the quadrant, and he's got a Deputy Governor. There are four Governors in the country—and it's a rare day indeed when they agree. But your system does sound very quaint."

Before their conversation could become too highly political, somebody tapped Ginny on the shoulder, and a smooth soprano asked, "Excuse me, could I please cut in?"

Ginny turned to see a shorter brunette woman in a very fancy ball gown smiling up at her a bit hesitantly. She had only the impression of very dark eyes, and a stringy build before Geoff said, "Oh! Jackie, you're here! Ginny, this is my fiancée Jacqueline Duvall. Jackie, this is the British witch that accompanied my father's business partner, Ginny Martin."

"Business partner?" Jackie's smile faltered just enough to let Ginny know that the Keeper obviously did not approve of most of Hector Grey's business partners. Still, her handshake was firm, which could only be expected from a professional Quidditch player. "As in…?"

"Draco's just here on business for his father," Ginny said hastily. "I accompanied him because we attend the same school back home, and it's always good to have a familiar face about." She hoped that Jackie would buy that excuse, and wondered for the briefest of moments if she should have played clueless.

Jackie's full smile returned. "Well, then. Sorry if I caused any bad vibes. It was very nice meeting you, Jenny." Even though the American witch had butchered her name, Ginny replied that it had been a pleasure to meet Jackie as well, and fled. The Quidditch player had such a presence that it was almost overwhelming. The only person that Ginny had met anything like her was Cho Chang, Harry's old crush. Ginny had been overwhelmed by the girl at the time, too.

She found Draco before she could return to the table with Greys, luckily enough. He was standing at the edge of the dance floor, obviously searching for her. The sight of Draco Malfoy fidgeting stopped her in her tracks, but she hurried to gather her pace when he spotted her. "There you are! My business with Mr. Grey is finished, so we're free to leave whenever we want." Before Ginny could respond, he reached up and stroked a stray lock of her hair. "I'm sorry, but it is very odd to see you with any hair colour but red."

"I haven't looked in the mirror yet," Ginny said honestly, wrinkling her nose up at him. "How's it look?"

"Liz is very good with complexions, but it just doesn't do you justice." A smile appeared so quickly that Ginny nearly stared. Underneath all of the Malfoy charm and polish, Draco actually had a crooked smile, which looked nothing but breathtaking on him. Now Ginny knew why Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown always swooned at the sight of wizards with smiles like that. Those smiles were downright dangerous! 

Ginny forced herself to remember to breathe as Draco asked, "So, do you want to go now? They won't miss us. See? The elder Greys already left. Geoff's already wrapped up in his fiancée, so he certainly won't notice we're gone."

He wasn't lying, Ginny found out as she looked at Geoff, who was almost slack-jawed in awe towards Jackie. She smiled, wondering if Jackie knew what she had in Geoff. She certainly hoped so. "Do we have to go back so soon? I haven't seen you all week, and there's hardly a Prefect's Bathroom where the two of us can meet," she found herself saying.

Draco chewed the corner of his lip. "I think there's a coffee shop across the street. Fancy a cup of hot, bad American coffee? I warn you, the stuff's not very good."

"They don't have tea here?" Ginny asked, eyebrows rising as she allowed Draco to lead her away from the dance floor.

"Well, they do—but it's even worse than the coffee…"

He wasn't lying, Ginny found out quickly. The coffee shop across the street was definitely a Muggle affair, but Draco had remembered to bring a few American dollars. Perhaps the coffee shop attendant gave him a few strange looks after he had ordered and shoved a wad of bills at him, but Draco took no notice. He and Ginny were soon situated at a corner booth in the rather dark building, clutching cups of bad coffee like lifesavers. "So, did you have any fun at all during the dinner?" Draco asked conversationally, daring to take a sip of the vile concoction.

Ginny inspected a funny-coloured stain on the table with some interest. It looked like a Smelling Solvent gone sour. "They were almost too _nice_ to be Death Eaters," she remarked. "Geoffrey was very interesting, for sure. We talked about the different types of governments. Did you know that they have governors here, instead of Ministers?"

Draco nodded to show that he did indeed know how the American politics of wizardry functioned. "Father's explained them time and again. He thinks I'm following his rather absurd position in the Ministry."

"Oh? And what do _you _plan to do?" Ginny asked with some interest. "Play Quidditch?"

"Coach it, maybe. Some of the best coaches in the league have been Slytherins." Draco's eyes acquired a far-off gaze for the briefest flicker. He seemed to land back on earth in the dismal coffee shop rather quickly, though. "Do you ever feel like you're being watched for every second of your life? Like _every second_."

The question came from seemingly nowhere and, startled, it took Ginny more than a minute to answer. "I don't know," she said slowly, looking from the stain on the table to the unreal blue of Draco's eyes. The day before, she knew, they had been grey. "I've never really felt that way, but I'm sure some people have."

"Yeah," Draco snorted. "The people that end up in St. Mungo's."

Ginny had an aunt in St. Mungo's, and said so. "Maybe you're just paranoid," she reasoned, one eyebrow rising above the other. "I mean, if I went through what you go through possibly every day, I'd be paranoid, too." She carefully didn't mention the dreams that the remnants of Tom sent her way every once in a while, or the power surges. Those were immaterial at the moment. "Who do you feel is watching you?"

Shifting restlessly, Draco managed almost a surly shrug. "I don't know—it's almost from within, actually. Sometimes I think that I have an evil half that's just sitting there, waiting for me to say the wrong thing, _do _the wrong thing, and then strike! But that's crazy, right?"

"Right," Ginny agreed slowly, feeling as though she had become the psychoanalyst in this situation. _It takes one to know one_, she thought rather ruefully. They were like the blind leading the blind—utterly pointless and laughable in their own right. "How long have you felt this way?" She took a sip of the coffee and immediately regretted it.

Draco leaned back, still twirling the styrofoam cup of coffee. "Since fifth year," he said quietly. "When I started to change. It was the strangest thing—I didn't want to pick on Potter so much anymore. I still hate him—he's a stuck-up prig—but I never really wanted to go out of my way to get a rise out of him or Wea—Ron, like I used to." Hot coffee spilled on his finger, making him wince.

"We all thought that you were humiliated by the train incident," Ginny told him, daring another sip of coffee. "But I think it was something else. What was it? Onset of common sense?" She was just teasing him, but Draco's eyes darkened. Suddenly, the cold feeling that there was a storm on the horizon nearly threatened to overtake her. She swallowed carefully, the coffee still in her mouth. "You know what? I'm changing the subject. This is my first date, and I'm hardly going to spend it talking about dark sides and dark pasts. So, what have your lectures been over this week?"

If anybody had told Ginny four months before that talking to Draco Malfoy was one of the easiest things to be done, she would have laughed in disbelief. Changed or not, Draco _was _a Malfoy, and Ginny was a Weasley. They were like oil and vinegar: potent when mixed, but normally not mixed well. But Ginny had not known then that he could talk with such fascination over the different aspects of Chinese and European rituals, a lecture which he had definitely enjoyed. "It's the workings of magic, and the strengthening of magical vessels that's really the intriguing part," he said, sounding so much like an old scholar that Ginny actually giggled despite the stormy feeling lurking within. "What?" he demanded, still not accustomed to having people chuckle at his antics.

"Right, _professor_," Ginny teased, all warnings of a storm within abating. "Will you be assigning homework about this?"

"Was I lecturing?" Draco asked, astounded. His eyes widened as Ginny chuckled. "Don't tell me I was prattling on like some boring old scholar!" When Ginny confirmed that, yes, he was, he groaned. "It's the coffee shop, I tell you. Let's get out of here."

The restaurant and the coffee shop were located in a nice sector of New Orleans, so they only slightly cautious as they set along the street-lamp bathed street. Some of the signs they passed were written in French, and probably butchered by Draco's pronunciation. "I always liked Latin more, anyway," he muttered to himself, shoving his hands in the pockets of his dress jacket. He was not nervous, but he seemed to draw within himself, almost like pulling a cape around the vibrancy he normally gave off.

"French is supposed to be the most romantic language," Ginny remarked after one of his attempts. 

"Romance is for swots who need real jobs," Draco sniffed disparagingly, but the smile took the sting out of his words.

Ginny raised her eyebrow anyway. "You're just saying that because you don't know how to be romantic," she taunted. "In fact, I think you're afraid."

"If that's your plot to get me to be more romantic, you're as cunning as any Slytherin I've had the fortune of exchanging words with," Draco remarked shrewdly, eyes narrowing perceptively. Still seeing taunting disbelief on Ginny's face, he sighed. "And I suppose this time I'll force myself to give in to the wiles of a woman."

And to her eternal amusement, he tap-danced a little number right there in front of her. Before she could react, he swooped her up into a dance without music, twirling and spinning her with him.

Ginny had only met three people that could move with the grace that Draco Malfoy did instinctively—and they were all dancers, trained to become that graceful. Draco's grace seemed to pour from his every limb without his even being aware of it. Ginny might have been jealous, but she was oddly content to let Draco have his little quirks. Heaven knew that she had enough of her own to manage quite well.

Once he had released her into a whirlwind of unexpected emotions, Draco pretended to take the utmost care in selecting a dandelion clock from a nearby lawn. "A flower for m'lady," he said, affecting a very poor French accent that made Ginny giggle. "It may not be a rose or anything, but…"

Ginny pretended to regard the dandelion clock rather severely. "Well, if you turn it this way, the light catches it just so and makes it appear like a white rose," she told him, grinning mischievously. "Of course, roses don't come apart when you sneeze, though…"

Draco's expression turned slightly wry. "My suggestion would be not to sneeze, then," he advised drolly.

"I'll keep that in mind."

They walked past a series of old-fashioned shops, pausing here and there to peer into the large front windows, and to comment on the merchandise within. Ginny was most fascinated by a display of shiny kitchen appliances, but Draco lingered in front of a shop that read, that read "Bobby's Stuff." He was staring in almost morbid fascination at the toys that were displayed rather haphazardly. "They _sell _those things?" he asked, pointing at a rocking horse obviously fashioned from very old wood. The paint had at one point been garish, but it was now faded and dull, sullied by a patina of dust. "I mean, that's what, the Muggle equivalent to a rocking-broom?"

Ginny had never had a rocking-broom, for Fred had destroyed the family's only one about four days before she was born. Of course, as it was Fred, he had given Ron a scar on his left shoulder in the process, something Ron liked to bring up from time to time. "I think this is an antique shop," Ginny said now, eyes travelling from one dusty toy to another. "I don't think any of these things are current toys. It's all about eclectricity now." Although she knew how to say "electricity," she still mispronounced it, an old habit from her father.

Now disinterested in the wooden figure, Draco jerked his head, signalling that they should probably get along. "I think there's a flower shop up here," he told her, pointing at a blue-painting building that looked green under the streetlight. "And look—just up ahead. There's some kind of bridge."

After Ginny had sufficiently admired the mums and orchids that were subtly arranged in the window to attract more customers, she allowed Draco to lead her up onto the bridge. It was a narrow affair, strapped between two strips of land that bordered a small tumbling creek. "They pronounce it 'crick' out here," Draco informed her, leaning far over the trickle of water only a metre below. "I heard somebody at St. Lawrence's call them that. Talk about mispronunciation."

"Americans do have a funny way of saying things," Ginny agreed readily. "Meg keeps saying 'schedule' like 'sked-duel.' I tried to correct her, but I didn't think it got through." She smiled down at the rocks, subconsciously counting the patches of dried-up algae along the tops of them. New Orleans must have been experiencing a bit of a drought as of late. She pushed all of that from her mind and looked over at Draco, who was watching the rocks below. Blue-grey eyes that were less like steel with each passing moment flitted rapidly from one rock to another. "Hey, what's so interesting down there?"

"What?—Oh, nothing, nothing," Draco said hastily, leaning back so quickly that he nearly tumbled backwards. He faced her, poker face sliding neatly into place. "I've just had a lot on my mind lately." He looked as though he were going to say something else, but changed his mind. "That's all, really…"

Even with the poker look, Ginny's sixth sense could tell that he was lying, or at least hiding something from her. _He can keep his secrets_, her mind admonished. _Things just don't change overnight._

"Well, _something's_ got to be bothering you," Ginny said, not entirely willing to let him get away with a bold-faced lie. "Are you not having fun tonight?"

"Flustered" was not an emotion that suited Draco Malfoy. Some people could pull this off and still look astoundingly beautiful, but a flustered Draco Malfoy actually looked rather helpless and lost. The look was so different from the normally polished composure that Ginny forced away the urge to stare. "Well, I'm having fun, but it didn't turn out the way I hoped."

"How do you mean?" Ginny asked, a sick feeling sliming down the back of her throat.

Soft spikes of white-blond stood on end as Draco ran a hand through his hair, breathing deeply in order to regain at least a fraction of his dignity. "This wasn't a _real _date," he finally said, his voice cracking slightly over the words. "This was a business meeting to further the cause of the Dark Lord that's currently terrorising your family and friends. I really like you, Ginny—and I really want to go out on a _real _date."

"Draco, I—"

He held up one hand, stopping any protests cold in their tracks. "No, let me finish." Another deep breath, another portion of dignity regained. "I don't know what's wrong with me—I can't talk all of the sudden. But…anyway, I feel like we have this…like we have a connection. I'd love to spoil you like a good boyfriend, and be a general all-around prince charming—funny hearing _me _say that, right?"

Ginny bit her lip to stop the sick feeling from overtaking her entire torso. Her limbs tingled slightly, like an onset of some kind of warning.

"I mean, I'm Draco Malfoy. Two years ago, I was the top recruiter for Death Eater candidates at Hogwarts. Sometimes, I wonder what happened to me—why am I suddenly willing to go out and buy flowers and candy?" Now he was definitely rambling, and it was starting to frighten her. People like Draco did not ramble: they spoke their point concisely, with a hypothesis to back it up, and let that judgement stand.

"But we _can't _do that—"

Before she regurgitated the lovely shrimp scampi she had eaten for dinner, Ginny touched his arm, stopping his rambling in its tracks. "I'm willing to keep it a secret," she said softly, enunciating enough so that he understood every word. "I'm willing to do that to be with you." She pushed the thought of her family members' reactions to Draco Malfoy from her mind and steeled her resolve. "There's not much we could do but keep it a secret."

To her surprise, Draco nodded grimly. "Isn't that the truth?" His voice was bitter. "I mean, a Weasley dating a Death Eater? A Death Eater _good _enough for you? The thought's laughable."

Ginny's fingers closed about his forearm. "Would you become a Death Eater if you had a choice?" she asked softly, not flinching when he jerked away. The anguish in his eyes alone was more than enough of an answer for her. "Then that's all I need to know."

He looked away from the bridge, the rocks, and even her, so that his eyes unfocussed and his face grew tight, composing itself to be rock hard. Ginny didn't think; her arm went to his shoulders, forcing him to turn. He looked confused for the briefest of instants. "What are you doing?" he demanded, eyes becoming guarded once again.

"Proving that you're worth it. Come here."

And with that, Ginny Weasley did the boldest thing she had ever done in her life and kissed Draco Malfoy.

*

Somehow or other in his rather short life, Malcolm had passed over the fact that he innately knew how to Apparate.

Unfortunately for his sanity, he was forced to realise that he did indeed know how to Apparate, and that he could Apparate over quite some distance—without giving pause to think about it. One minute, he had been sitting at Malfoy's desk, writing a letter to Tiger; the next, he was standing in the middle of a bridge, clutching three books in his arms and carrying what appeared to be a bona fide phoenix on his shoulder. He had always doubted the existence of phoenixes, but the bird on his shoulder quickly put an end to that. He spun around warily, eyes darting about. Luckily for him, he had landed on some sort of footbridge, so there wasn't a Muggle car in sight.

However, there was another slightly disturbing image in sight. "Would you two cut that out already?"

Malfoy and Ginny sprang apart, both flushing guiltily. When Malfoy saw that it was Malcolm, he snarled, "You! What are you doing here?"

From the murderous expression on Malfoy's face, it looked like a shrug on Malcolm's part could mean instant death. "I don't know," he said truthfully, looking from one rosy face to another. "What—did I break up a first kiss or something? I didn't mean to." He was being honest, but that was doing very little to spare his life in the grey eyes of his Quidditch captain. About to do the unthinkable and apologise, he instead let out a yell of pain as talons clawed him. "Get this beast off me!"

"Fawkes!" Ginny cried, rushing forward to relieve Malcolm of the bird. "How on earth did you get hold of the Headmaster's phoenix, Baddock?"

"I don't know!"

Malfoy tore the tomes away from Malcolm's grip, his gaze accusatory. His eyes flickered furiously over the titles before landing on Malcolm's face. "Since when are you able to Apparate, Baddock?" he asked lowly, his voice maliciously dangerous.

Malcolm had heard rumours about the Quidditch Captain, and the rages he used to throw before Malcolm's time at Hogwarts, but Malfoy had always seemed so reserved and quiet. Well, he'd been boisterous and arrogant in Malcolm's first year, but something had changed. Malcolm had never believed the rumours, but the very image of an angry Lucifer standing in front of him brought every last word to mind. Unintentionally, he started to shake. "Er…since always?" he asked hopefully, praying that his voice didn't tremble. "I'm not sure, all right? One moment, I was sitting down, the next I'm here! I didn't have any control over it!"

Like a bird flattening its feathers to appear normal, Malfoy's evilness seeped away. At the touch of Ginny's arm, he almost seemed to jump. "He's telling the truth, Draco," she murmured at him. "I can tell."

As grateful as he was to Malfoy's girlfriend for saving him from the wrath of Malfoy, Malcolm swallowed angrily and puffed up like an animal backed into a corner. "Why doesn't anybody believe me?" he shouted at the pair of them. "I didn't _do _anything! I'm just here!" He threw up his arms either to protect himself, or to catch a phantom Quaffle. In the end, he would never be sure.

It was that action alone that saved him.

He heard a shriek, and the trajectory of his arm sent him sprawling backwards rather clumsily in retaliation. Dazedly, he realised that the sharp crack he heard could be none other than his head. _This can't be good, _he thought at the oncoming void, looming up on the horizon of his vision.

There was a high-pitched scream, but then it too was enclosed in the inky darkness that promised nothing and took everything.

****

To be continued…

A/N the Second: I'm terrible, oh so terrible. I've left you with a cliff-hanger, and you don't even know what attacked—or if anything _did _attack! Haha! I'm so cruel, and the fact that I'm revelling in it just makes me crueller.

The _Sacramento Bee _is a newspaper in California, by the way. That's where I got the inspiration for Jackie Duvall's Quidditch team. Geoffrey looks like Leo from _Charmed_…which is really funny because Jackie looks like Piper!


	9. Pother's Bosom

A/N: Okay, this chapter was surprisingly easy to write. Maybe that's because I've got new material, or maybe I've got a second wind. Let's hope that the second wind is the case for the rest of the story (I guess roughly four chapters, maybe more, remain), and that the tenth chapter will be just as easy. Wouldn't that be lovely? Anyway, if chapter seven was an acid trip, chapter nine is a roller coaster through a house of horrors. Stick with it—I promise that I truly am a fan of happy endings. 

__

Can you tell that I'm losing myself

I think I'm trying too hard to

Let it show to let you know

Don't trace your footsteps back to me

Because I've been gone for a long time

Forget My Name, New Found Glory

****

Pother's Bosom 

Chapter Nine

It was Colin that found the small black book lying atop the dining table of the small house that the Creevey family was hiding in.

He'd been bored—which was natural, for the house only came equipped with an electric tin-opener and three shelves of what the two boys had quickly surmised to be very boring, dry spy novels, written sometime during their grandfather's day. They only came upon this conclusion when the two had come into the minuscule den to find their grandfather actually chortling over some of the "witticisms" within what looked to be about the most boring book of the lot. "'Mesh and Lace' is a very respectable read," Grandfather Rex, as the boys always called him, told them rather indignantly. Colin had nodded agreeably just to stop the old man from waffling on about the book for days. Then he had headed outside, which was what he was in the process of doing now when he found the book on the table.

He hadn't given it a second thought at first. After all, his grandfather often left books lying about the tiny safe house. Usually, the boys thoughtfully put them on his bedside table, a sort of buffer against the old man's constant forgetfulness. Still, Colin had been more interested in wandering about the postage stamp sized backyard than cosseting his grandfather, so he left the book where it was. When Dennis came outside with a tennis ball, they got so caught up in a game of wall-ball, a game that Dennis had made up out of pure boredom, that it completely slipped his mind.

When it appeared the next morning on the bedside table of the cubicle that he and Dennis called a room, Colin was puzzled only for the briefest of instants. His father had probably assumed the book to be his. Colin picked it up to examine the cover. He only saw a short expanse of black before his father pounded on the bedroom door, calling for Colin to get out of bed so that he could help with the milk route. The book was once again pushed from Colin's mind as he scrambled for a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

It was only that night, when he found the book sitting firmly atop his pillow, that Colin started to suspect that something was not quite normal about this book. After all, he and Dennis had been outside all day, helping their grandfather with the tiny garden, and their father never came into their room. Plus, he knew that Dennis had not picked up the book—Dennis hardly picked _anything_ up, and definitely not anything on the floor of the room they shared.

So it was with some trepidation that Colin actually leaned down and collected the book up. He'd heard rumours of magical books that pestered the people that read them, but he highly doubted that such a thing would happen to him.

The book was small, fitting easily into his hands without extending beyond the tips of his fingers. Fumbling in his confusion, Colin opened the front cover and looked at the title page.

"The Soul Book," it read in blocky green lettering, "belonging to Draco Malfoy."

Surprised, Colin's first reflex was to stare at the pages, wondering why they weren't starkly black. He admonished himself for his childishness at once. Draco Malfoy had not said a snide thing to him in over a year, and he had even apologised on the train, hadn't he?

But why would his Soul Book be sitting on Colin's pillow, of all places?

Although he felt as though he was intruding, Colin turned the page and blinked at the array of aesthetics presented to him. In spidery green lettering were words. "AUGH!" read one. "SILENCE!" raced across half of the page in erratic jumbles, the letters flowing together until Colin didn't know where one ended and the other began. "They're in my head," proclaimed viciously dark letters, as though somebody had slashed at the book with a quill. "They're in my bloody head, and I can't get them out of me. These feelings…" It seemed to end in a violent cut-off that made Colin shudder.

"If I didn't know Malfoy had issues before, I sure do now," Colin muttered to himself, climbing onto his bunk in order to get a closer look at the strange book. He turned the page and nearly shouted in surprise to see a very detailed drawing of Ginny Weasley, one of his closest friends. "And I had no idea that Malfoy was an artist, either."

The Soul Book, belonging to Draco Malfoy, was perhaps the oddest collection of pages Colin had run across. Some pages were entirely blank, probably hiding Malfoy's deepest thoughts, but other thoughts jumbled words together like there was no other space in the world. Sometimes, the words were so thickly pushed into each other that the page appeared to be hunter green instead of cream. Colin flipped through the pages, torn between revulsion at himself for invading Malfoy's privacy, of all people, and curiosity to see what the contents of this strange book held.

It did not occur to him to question exactly who could have sent this book to him; he was, after all, so accustomed to things in the wizarding world just appearing and disappearing that he had long ago stopped being surprised by his first world's little quirks. While some Muggle-born witches and wizards would forever spend their life jumping and being startled by the oddities of a world unfamiliar to them, Colin had learned to accept things without so much as blinking. His assumption about the book was that somebody needed him to have it, so he had it. He did not need to do anything, he supposed, except to read through the book and maybe hold onto it until he could return it to Malfoy.

However, all of those sentiments changed the instant he turned to the back page. The book clattered out of his hands, which had frozen, and onto the dingy carpet floor of his bedroom. He did not need to look down to know that it had fallen open to the very page that had shocked him so bad. Brain fuzzy and hands clumsy, he reached down and collected it, blinking once again at the words that had shocked him so badly.

For there, written in the perfectly scripted handwriting of the rich, were the words, "I need your help, Colin Creevey."

* 

"Hey, wake up!"

Waking Meghan Detooki had never been the easiest task in the world, and Elizabeth Abends was usually the poor soul allotted for the job. The brunette had long since resigned herself to her fate, but that didn't make things any easier. Liz was about to consider fetching Meg's roommate's broom and using that to poke her friend awake when, in a miracle to top all miracles, Meg simply rolled over and slurred, "Liz, what are you doing in my room at six o'freaking clock in the morning?"

Crankiness usually meant that Meg was closer to wakefulness than dreams, so Liz took this to be a good sign and crossed to her friend's wardrobe. Selecting a green shirt that she knew to be one of her friend's favourites, she threw that at Meg and said, "C'mon, get up, we've got work to do. You'll have time to primp later."

Confusion joined the sleepiness in Meg's eyes. "We do?" Still, with a massive effort, the redhead pushed the covers off of herself and pulled the shirt on over the sportsbra she had fallen asleep in.

"Yeah—Ginny never came in last night. I talked to her roommate—you know, that British chick, Mandy—and she said that she didn't hear Ginny come in at all. In fact, she wanted to know if I knew where Ginny was." Liz pressed her lips together into a very thin line, reminding Meg of a schoolteacher. "They're not from around here. Otherwise, I wouldn't worry. If those two got a hotel room without at least letting us know in advance, I will…"

"Whoa, down tiger," Meg laughed, slightly more awake. "I'm sure Ginny doesn't have to tell us _every detail _of her sex life, you know." If anything, the line that had previously been Liz's lips thinned, so Meg conceded. "All right, then, what are we going to do about it?"

"A location charm—and you're much better than that particular brand of charm than I am," Liz said promptly, glad to have Meg on focus. There had never been a more faithful person than Meg Detooki, but it usually took some tugging to get Meg going. "Must be all those clothes you keep losing."

In her plans for becoming a fashion designer, Meg had the most clothing of all of the girls in Raleigh Hall at St. Lawrence's Academy—and she was quite notorious for losing them. It was a sign that Meg had picked up some of Liz's worry that she did not rise to Liz's gibe. "Must be," she agreed instead, clueing her friend in on the fact that she was also worried. "Got anything of Ginny's I can use as a focus, then?"

In answer, Liz crossed to the desk and picked up a simple black hair tie. "She left this in here when she was changing for the date," she explained, holding the article out to Meg. She also held out her friend's wand. "Think you can work with something so small?"

Meg eyed the simple elastic band. "I've worked with smaller," she allowed in a disgruntled voice, picking it up between her thumb and forefinger. The slightly worried look on her face belied the begrudging confidence in her tone as she took the wand. "It'll have to do." Without any other preamble, she pointed her wand at the hair tie and said, "_Spectare Ginny Weasley!_"

At first, nothing happened. As both friends slowly expelled the breaths they had been unthinkingly holding, the tip of Meg's wand slowly began to glow a very, very bright red. The predawn gloom of the room dissipated in the face of such bright light. "Huh," Meg said, looking at her wand in confusion. She blinked several times. Looking at the light was now starting to hurt. "It's never done that before. Usually it just projects a picture…"

"Look out!" Liz shouted, and flung herself at her friend, sending both toppling haphazardly onto Meg's bed—and not an instant too soon.

Both girls would later swear that it was like the world exploding. As Meg's wand hit the floor, a much heavier mass hit the lone, long window that took up half of the east wall. Glass shattered everywhere, pummelling the desk and walls (and even Liz, who had fallen on top of her friend) mercilessly. Liz shrieked as glass cut into her leg, and her cry seemed to join in with the unearthly shout of a songbird. The pair on the bed heard the whimper of a third girl, and a warbling bird's call, accompanied by the crunching of shattered glass underfoot before they looked up.

Standing in the middle of Meg's now-destroyed dorm room, shaken but alive, was Ginny Weasley. And she was clutching the tail of Fawkes the Phoenix, who was in the very process of landing without getting glass in his fiery-red talons.

"Ginny!" Meg cried, pushing Liz off of her in order to get to their friend. Liz winced as her injured leg touched the ground, but made no protest beyond that. "What happened to you?!"

For it was obvious that something had gone very, very wrong. 

Ginny was still wearing the cocktail dress that she had borrowed from Meg, but it was clearly not enough covering, for the British girl was quaking—whether from cold or fear, the other two did not know. Somehow, her hair had fallen out of its stylish twist; it lay, limp and ragged, around her head like a disenchanted red crown. Her eyes and nose were also streaming, but she hardly took notice as she looked at the two in the room. "D-did I hu-hurt either of y-y-you?" she asked, looking from one to the other with watery eyes. "I hadn't—hadn't r-realised what—F-Fa-Fawkes meant to d-do…"

"I think I need to see a mediwizard about my leg," Liz answered truthfully, biting her lip against the pain. "But I can stand it for now. What on earth happened? Why didn't you Portkey back? Did somebody hurt you? Where's Draco?"

At this last question, Ginny's face crumpled and her body shook with dry sobs. It seemed as though she had cried herself out on the way home from New Orleans. "T-they t-t-took hi-him," she whispered, her voice cracking horribly as she stammered.

"Hold that thought," Meg interrupted before Liz could begin an interrogation. Retrieving her wand (which was now a normal, wooden colour), she snapped at the shattered window, "_Reparo!_" As glass flew to its original state, Fawkes hopped over to where Liz had collapsed onto the bed from the pain and inspected her bleeding leg. The glass shard had returned to the window, so it was now a clean wound. "I think the silencing spell you put on my room last year is still holding," she commented, looking at Liz's ruined khakis. "I hope Cindy still knows that spell for getting blood out of clothing."

Liz sent her a glare that clearly said, "Ginny's upset and you're thinking about _clothing_?" Ignoring both her friend and Fawkes, she turned to Ginny. "Who took him?" she asked gently.

The shock wore off long enough for Ginny to move to the bed, sitting gingerly beside Liz. "T-they did," she sniffled, trying to control her sobbing. "H-his f-f-father and those a-awful men." Slowly, she seemed to be struggling to gain a fraction of composure.

"Why would a father kidnap his own son?" Meg asked, her forehead growing several lines as she looked from Ginny to Liz. She had crossed to the sink by her door and filled a glass with water. Returning, she thrust that at Ginny.

Taking the water, Ginny tried to compose her voice enough to answer, "He just did. We can't stop him. There's nothing we can do. First of all, Draco's father knows where he is, and so he won't report Draco missing. And if _we _report Draco missing, then…well, they'll think that we're having hallucinations. Mr. Malfoy has the Ministry eating out of his hand." The words came rushing out, tumbling over one another in their haste to leave Ginny's form. "Draco didn't want to become a Death Eater, but he doesn't really have a choice. They'll kill him if he doesn't. That's why they took him." For a moment, she looked far, far older than sixteen.

The pain was leaving Liz's leg, forcing her to yelp in surprise as wetness took its place. "What are you doing?" she demanded of Fawkes, who appeared to be _crying _over her leg. "You crazy bird!" She moved to shoo him away, but Ginny stopped her hand.

"Don't," she sniffled, her voice still shaking. "Phoenix tears have healing powers."

Both Liz and Meg gaped at her. "I—I knew that," Liz stammered, trying to cover for her mistake. "Really."

Despite the fact that she was near breaking down completely, Ginny managed a ghost of a smile. "Phoenixes are amazing things. Fawkes saved my life tonight—or was it last night? If he hadn't been there, they would have taken me, too. And they wouldn't have hesitated to…to kill me." She swallowed noisily before another sob wracked her thin form. "Did you know," she said, continuing, "that phoenixes can carry greatly heavy weights? That's how he carried me all the way here. Fawkes once carried Harry, my brother, my old Defence Professor, and me up nearly a kilometre."

Liz blinked. "That's a lot of weight," she admitted. Seeing the untouched vessel in Ginny's hand, she instructed, "Drink your water."

"Yes, Mum," Meg answered for Ginny. She wasn't trying to be overly snide; she was just trying to levy tension from the room. There was little they could do about the situation with Draco Malfoy: Ginny had pointed out that he probably wasn't being harmed, either way. Unsure of what to do, Meg handed Ginny a sweater, providing comfort in her own way. "So were you attacked or what? You don't seem to be hurt…"

"Oh, no, Fawkes flew me out of there before any of the hexes could hit me," Ginny said in a rush. "But Malcolm—he's Draco's friend, you don't know him—and Draco were taken by the men. They knocked Malcolm out, and Stunned Draco. I couldn't hear what they were saying…I was too far away." Suddenly, she looked so bitter that Liz wrapped her in a hug. The redhead leaned gratefully against her new friend. "And there's not a thing we can do about it, either. I mean, like I said, Draco's father has the Ministry in his pocket."

Fawkes let out a chirp and pushed his head against Ginny's knee. "He's saying that you shouldn't worry," Meg translated needlessly. "Fawkes knows best, after all. You're a clever bird." She reached out tentative and stroked the phoenix's head. "Now, c'mon, what you need right now is sleep, Gin. I'll let you sleep in my bed. You shouldn't be walking in your condition."

Ginny looked grateful. Exhaustion seemed to radiate from her, making everything about her seem very grey. "Will you tell Mandy that I just stayed in here?" she asked, looking from one friend to the other. "I don't want her to know…"

"Consider it taken care of," Liz told her. "Now Meg's right for once. You should listen to her and get some rest." Their friend was so exhausted that Meg had to help her out of the cocktail dress and into an old set of hospital scrubs that Meg had undoubtedly got from her mother. "We'll take notes at the lectures we go to if you're interested."

"Th-thanks," Ginny stammered through a yawn. She had pulled the covers up to her chin, and was curled on her side, facing the pair of them. Worry was evident even through the bone-tired look ingrained onto her normally youthful face. She was asleep even before Meg grabbed a pair of jean shorts from a drawer and followed Liz from the room.

While Liz shut and locked Meg's door, Meg eyed the pair of shorts she had collected up. "I guess I'll scrub today," she remarked rather dispiritedly. "Scrubbing" was Meg's term for Liz's normal attire: anything involving denim or T-shirts.

"A flaw in the perfect clothing schedule of Meghan Detooki?" Liz gasped, pretending shock.

"Yeah, it's amazing what I do for my friends," Meg quipped sarcastically as they reached the staircase at the end of the hallway. Liz and Ginny both lived on the fourth floor of Raleigh Hall, but Meg lived alone on the third floor. Liz's roommate, Cindy, was staying at St. Lawrence's over the summer as well, so the girls spent the most time in Meg's room. Although Liz and Cindy got along extremely well, Cindy's friends had a tendency to hang around in the room—and be extremely loud while they did so. Liz, who was trying to gain acceptance into one of the hardest careers to enter, needed the quiet study time that could not be provided with her roommate's friends around.

Now, Cindy would be at an early morning training session with her friends, leaving the pair of friends with the room to themselves. Liz unlocked the door for Meg now, and moved across the hall to tell Mandy that she had found Ginny in Meg's room. She gave no specifics, so her words were true. When she returned to her own room, Meg was lying on Cindy's bed, already half-asleep. "I've got at least four hours before my first lecture," the redhead reported, looking at her watch. "Mind if I nap while you study?"

"Not at all," Liz replied, for she had expected this. "Cindy'll be back from practice in about an hour to catch a nap, so you can sleep in my bed." She grinned when Meg managed to stumble over to the other bed, having neatly folded the shorts she had brought along. With that, she opened her handbook the WBI Entrance Exam, a test that she would be forced to take the day after her seventeenth birthday. However, she could not focus on the nauseatingly huge exam, for the picture of Ginny looking bedraggled and lost came into mind time and again. Even as Meg's breathing deepened, Liz leaned forward and chewed on her pen cap.

The justice of the whole situation was whacked, she could tell. Surely _somebody _could do something, even if Ginny was convinced that it was hopeless. Obviously Draco's family was in the position to do more harm than help, so going to them would be a serious danger to all of those involved. Perhaps there was somebody that knew both situations...

Liz's mind flew immediately to the phoenix, whom they had left standing guard at the foot of Meg's bed. He had brought letters for both of them, so the headmaster of Hogwarts School obviously knew of both situations…

Before it could even occur that she wasn't minding her own business, like her father always warned her to, Liz had taken out a simple sheet of paper and was scrawling in hurried, yet neat print. "_Dear Sir,_" she wrote quickly, before her nerve could fail. After all, it was Meg that was the impulsive of the pair, while Liz leaned back and assessed the situation before leaping in as well—although when she leaped in, it was usually to pull Meg's rash hide from some spot of trouble or other. Now, however, it was up to Liz to do something, for both Meg and Ginny were now inconvenienced. Speed in the situation might be the only thing to help Draco Malfoy.

"_I should probably begin this letter by apologizing to you for poking my nose into a situation where it might not be welcome. However, I can hardly remain a passive bystander. My name is Elizabeth Abends, and I attend St. Lawrence's Academy for the Magically Competent. In the past two weeks, my friend Meghan Detooki and I have befriended two of your students, a Ginny Weasley and a Draco Malfoy. I know that you have been corresponding with both via your pet phoenix._

"_So that is why I am writing to you, instead of Draco's or Ginny's families. I have been made somewhat aware of the fact that Draco is the son of a notorious Death Eater, and that Ginny has been nearly killed by Draco's father. Somehow, I doubt either family would appreciate a letter saying that their son or daughter has become friends and even dated the other._" Here, Liz paused, wondering if Draco and Ginny had intended to keep their relationship from the headmaster as well. That could hardly be helped now. She chewed on her pen again as she read over what she had already written.

"_Last night, Draco was kidnapped while out on a date with Ginny, in New Orleans. Ginny is perfectly fine. She's sleeping now, for I imagine it was a long night. Your phoenix carried her all the way from New Orleans, which is no short trip from St. Louis. Ginny swears that both Draco, and another boy that accompanied them (I think his name was Malcolm or Maxwell), were kidnapped by Draco's father. She also swears that there's nothing we can do. I don't feel this to be the case, but I'm hardly informed enough to be sure of that._

"_So I'm pleading with you and wondering if there was anything that Ginny, or my friend and I, could do to help Draco. For Ginny's sake. We've only known her for less than two weeks, but already we're both very close to her. Please write back, post haste, and let us know if there is anything that can be done._

"_Sincerely, Liz Abends._"

Liz looked at the two sheets of paper doubtfully, her eyes taking in the number of crossing-outs and write-overs that took place on the few lines. She muttered a charm to remove extraneous words and folded the note into thirds. Placing that in one of the envelopes she dug out of her desk, she collected Meg's keys from atop the pair of shorts, and hurried out of the room. She unlocked Meg's door with practised ease, and was relieved to see both that Ginny was asleep, and that Fawkes was still there. He was obviously playing the role of guard dog, but it almost appeared as though he had been waiting for Liz.

"Well, aren't you clever?" she asked, approaching tentatively. Although Meg had taken to Fawkes instantly, birds and Liz had never entirely got along. She was not sure how well she could do with the European postal system, should she ever need to visit Europe. "Um…" She looked at Fawkes desperately, not sure how to word her plea to a bird, of all things. "Would you mind doing me a huge favour?" she finally asked. "Please?"

She might have imagined it, but she swore that Fawkes actually nodded. Taking this to be a good sign, even if it might have been in her head, she continued, "I need you to take this to the headmaster at Hogwarts—I, uh, I don't know his name. I forgot."

Fawkes's answering warble was quiet, but reassuring. He reached out one talon, and Liz immediately pushed the letter into it, trying not to show any nervousness. When he cocked his head at her, rather questioningly, and then glanced at the window, Liz said, "Oh!" in surprise and hurried to open the window for him. With a whirl of red feathers and bright sheen, Fawkes was gone, winging off towards Britain.

Liz watched the bird go until he was out of sight, before turning back to Ginny's curled up form. The glass of water Meg had given her was empty (Fawkes had probably had to slake his thirst), so Liz refilled it and set it where Ginny would find it, before slipping silently from the room.

*

_They'd pushed him too far._

Somehow, in the back of his head, Draco knew this. He wasn't sure how he knew; it was instinctual, like breathing or letting his heart beat. Sensing failure hadn't always been this way, but now it was: almost poignantly clear to some sort of awakened sixth sense, as real as hearing or seeing. But it wasn't just that way with failure. No, he could sense other human emotions loud and clear.

He could also hear the thudding of several heartbeats, accelerated, as he crouched on his haunches, palms flat against the ground. Blond hair had long ago dried unattractively to his scalp, flattened by the sweat that had been spurred by their exercises. He'd lost his shirt again, but his back unmarked apart from the scars that already crowded there, in their strange pattern. Seven scars—seven times he had been lashed. Only once could he remember. He stared down at the knees of the jeans they had given him—the only pants supple enough to last through the exercises—because those knees, dirtied and bloodied though they were, were the only part of his body that he could see without moving. He would not give them the satisfaction of knowing that he had survived the painful exercises.

"Get up, boy."

That voice. His father's. Clouded with impatience. But…Draco's lip curled sinisterly. Did he hear worry? Oh, yes, that was definitely worry, masking cold, delicious fear. His father was worried that Voldemort's little experiment had gone terribly wrong.

Draco liked to hear that fear. It was a second wind, so refreshing that he nearly threw his head back and laughed in its wake.

But laughing would let them know that he was perfectly fine. And that would replace the fear with another emotion that Draco liked to feed upon, but not nearly so much: triumph. He would not feed on others' triumph—not anymore. He would glean his own.

And that meant keeping still and making them think that they'd pushed him too far.

"I said get up_!" Yes. The worry had nearly turned to panic. Fear was now spreading wildly through the circle of men, and Draco was nearly drunk from the majesty of it. _

The lip unfurled now, malicious, revealing several teeth that had been caked with blood. Possibly his own blood. Possibly the blood of a beast. Maybe even the blood of another man. Draco Malfoy liked blood. He was no vampire, but the taste of blood was the taste of life.

And he liked that taste.

But not as much as he liked fear.

*

It only took Colin a little work to figure out where Malfoy Manor, where Draco was surely being kept, was. He mulled over what to do, while the rest of the house slept, and only came to his answer in the very early hours of the morning. He would attempt to see Malfoy, and to return the book, so that he could get a closer look at the situation. Going in blind was one of the worst things a fellow could do. Colin intended to use all of the tricks he had learned from photography—lighting, shadows, nuances, anything—to help him figure out what exactly was going on. 

Finding out where Malfoy Manor actually was had turned out to be no problem at all. After all, he had kept every issue of _The Daily Prophet _that he had received (excepting the ones from the months that he had been Petrified during first year), and the Malfoys were generous contributors to society. It took Colin a little while to find what he was looking for: an auction had been held at Malfoy Manor just that spring, and the announcement listed the address of the Manor. Colin clipped that out, and replaced his newspapers carefully, so that his father, brother, or grandfather would not know that anything was amiss after he left that night.

He then counted all of the Muggle money that he had collected from working the paper route (he had scrimped and saved for a bicycle, only to discover that he was headed for Hogwarts. Somehow, the money had just stayed in a small bag at the bottom of his trunk) and the milk route with his father. It wasn't a terribly large amount, but it was more than enough for a few train tickets and some travel food. Colin packed a small bag of necessities and hid that beneath the sofa, where his family members would not find it in the short space between dinner and bedtime.

Sitting down to dinner with his family and keeping his secret was practically an equivalent of torture, but Colin managed to deflect his need to tell Dennis everything by talking about a photo he had developed in the dark room two days before. The photo studio down the street rented out a small, rather abysmal dark room on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so the family was used to hearing about Colin's exploits in the dark room. Colin was just annoyed that he could not use the photo potion he'd been working on for several months. Activating it took wandwork, and any magic might alert Voldemort of their presence. At dinner, he chattered about that until the other three were too bored to pay attention or notice any nervousness on his part.

After dinner, Dennis wanted to go play a round of wall-ball, but Colin demurred and said that he needed to work on an essay for Potions. It did not take him long to pen a note to his family, informing them that he was going to visit a friend from school and that he would be back soon. Hopefully, it would only take a couple of days. His family wouldn't worry too much.

He left the note on his bed and, taking his carry-sack, left through the front door, whistling cheerfully. His father was already asleep, Dennis was in the backyard, and his grandfather was still trapped in some musty old spy novel. Keeping the Soul Book in the inner pocket of his jacket, Colin headed across to the bus station, in order to get to London. From there, he planned to hop a taxi to the Leaky Cauldron, and then to an inn near the Malfoy residence. He had his plans perfectly laid and written down on a timetable.

It was the timetable that his family found, two days later, after Colin had disappeared. 

Of course, they weren't the only ones who hadn't known that Colin couldn't Apparate. Somehow, this fact had slipped by Colin, as well. So he was definitely surprised when he ended up, in broad daylight, on a Muggle street in what he later found out to be New Orleans, Louisiana—in the southern part of the United States of America.

*

His wrists were heavy.

His head hurt so much that he forced himself to concentrate on that, just like the Quidditch game where he had nearly knocked himself out on his own broomstick. Focusing on the Quaffle had probably saved the game. He winced as he pushed all of his thoughts away from his throbbing temple.

It was that movement that gave him away.

"Glad to see that you've rejoined the world of the living, Mr. Baddock." The sinister voice shot to his very core, paralysing Malcolm far better than any Body-Binding curse ever would. Every child, after all, was taught to fear the very presence of Voldemort. Malcolm, who had actually seen the Dark Lord before, would never forget that voice. He didn't have much of a choice now. "You can look up."

"Thank you, lord," Malcolm murmured instinctively. His throat felt raw and broken, so it was no surprise that his voice creaked. When he looked up, his head felt so heavy that he "humbly" lowered his gaze for the briefest of moments. And he saw the full reason why his wrists felt so heavy.

Each was chained to a table leg of the small table where he and the most notorious Dark Lord ever sat, each on one end of a chessboard. The room was tiny and the walls were bare, lit only by a single torch over the only door. Malcolm used the remnants of the light to study the board itself. Predictably, his pieces were white, and Voldemort's were black. It would be up to Malcolm to make the first move. "Did you fancy a game of chess?" he asked before he could stop himself. Being impudent had always been his best card. He played this card now as he looked at the serpentine face that had once belonged to a man. Now it was owned by nothing but a bastion of evil. The red eyes locked on his, challenging him to look away.

In the end, Malcolm did. He stared at his hands, bitten by those terrible manacles.

"I was quite the chess player in my own days at Hogwarts," Voldemort said, conversationally. "Do they still play in the Common Room?"

Throat growing dryer, Malcolm answered that they did, yes.

"It's still a staple game at Hogwarts," Voldemort continued, reminiscing. "Before you attended, I had the honour of beating Hogwarts' most formidable chess player at the time."

"Ron Weasley?" Malcolm asked, looking confused. Even the people in his year knew how Ron had beaten the giant chess set belonging to the formidable Professor McGonagall—in Ron's first year. They all admitted that such a feat was impressive, even for a Gryffindor.

Voldemort's red eyes flashed. "I'll have to share a game with him, sometime, then."

Malcolm got the very bad feeling that he had condemned Ron Weasley with his thoughtfulness. _Don't be silly_, the rational part of his brain shouted. _The boy is best friends with Perfect Potter. He's _already_ a target_. And then he didn't feel so bad anymore.

"If there is one thing that I'm better at than chess, it is judging character," Voldemort was still going. "I've been watching you for quite some time, Mr. Baddock. I must admit, you've certainly an impressive record behind you. Quite the Quidditch player, aren't you? Impressive marks, as well, lined up to become a Prefect in your class." He listed several other qualities of Malcolm's, and the boy's stomach began to churn nauseatingly. There was only one way this was going. Indeed, Voldemort arrived there all too soon. "But you have yet to choose a side."

"A side?" Malcolm asked slowly, feigning ignorance.

Voldemort's eyes were practically sizzling like two tiny cooking fires. "You know exactly what I mean, boy! You have not sworn your allegiance to me. Instead, you have been fraternising with characters like Draco Malfoy, who has instead decided to throw his lot in with the irritating little fools following that crackpot schoolmaster."

In any other situation, Malcolm would have laughed at that comment. Icy sweat ran down his forehead, making the dismally tiny room seem colder. He bit his lip and studied the chessboard in order to buy a moment in which to compose his answer. "I'm fourteen. I have no need to swear myself to a side until I'm able to work magic properly," he finally said.

"Perhaps the outcome of a game will help you change your mind, then, Mr. Baddock." Voldemort gestured with one spindly-fingered hand at the chessboard with an elegance that was all but lost to the world. "I've set the chessboard to your specifications, of course. It's charmed to recognise your close and personal team members."

Hesitantly, Malcolm picked up the king piece—and got quite the shock. Staring up at him, and looking very disgruntled in kingly robes, was the unsmiling face of what could be nothing but a miniature Draco Malfoy. As Malcolm gaped, the tiny Draco gestured irritably for the boy to put him down.

"The section of the Order of the Phoenix dedicated to the protection of Draco Malfoy," Voldemort said as Malcolm carefully set the king piece down. "Fools." 

Surely enough, it was. Ginny Weasley, looking pale, scared, and small in the queen's attire, gazed about with some confusion. The bishops were none other than Severus Snape and Albus Dumbledore. Hermione Granger—everybody in the school knew Brainy-Grainy—was a rook, partnered with a very ill tempered Ron Weasley. Malcolm saw Colin Creevey and none other than Tiger Jawkins sitting atop white horses, looking bored and frightened at the same time. "Odd choice for knights."

Voldemort's expression did not change. "I cannot see the identities of your chess pieces, nor you mine. The losing force will be revealed to the victor of this game. That's the beauty of this chess game, isn't it?"

A cold rush flew through Malcolm so quickly that he only barely stifled his gasp. Sixteen chess pieces were staking their lives on his chess skills. People he didn't even know. The pawn line seemed to contain four Weasleys (obviously brothers of Ginny), the two Americans he had seen walking with Ginny, little Dennis Creevey, and Harry Potter. Why would Harry Potter care about the welfare of Draco Malfoy? Malcolm wondered as he looked at the minuscule figure. Harry Potter would care about the welfare of only Ginny Weasley and Hermione Granger, and maybe Colin Creevey…oh. Not all of these people were protecting Draco. Tiger was there on _his _account, Malcolm was sure.

"You pushed Draco Malfoy to let you become Quidditch captain. I know—he told me just this morning. Now, let us see just how much you enjoy being in charge. Your move, Mr. Baddock."

The words slid over and past Malcolm as he stared at the sixteen small figures. Four of the chess pieces on his side bore a slightly green tinge. He could only see dark, confused shapes that stood for Voldemort's pieces, but the queen piece also held the green tinge. Malcolm blinked at his chess pieces, eyes drinking in the four tainted pieces. Draco, Ginny, Colin, and Hermione. What on earth could connect _those _four? And the queen from Voldemort's side?

"Mr. Baddock, you will find that my patience is far from limitless."

Rebuked, Malcolm reached forward with quaking figures and picked up the small pawn that represented Harry Potter. "I hope you brought your good luck charm," he said offhandedly. It wasn't wise to verbally insult a Dark Lord, but Malcolm could later blame his words on a head injury. "Because you're going to need it."

He set the pawn down, and the chess match that would end it all began.

* 

When Ginny finally woke up, it was early evening, and she had somehow managed to push all of the covers Meg had placed over her onto the floor. Even though it was burning hot inside the room, she shivered and looked around. It took her a second to remember where she was.

On the tail of that came the memories. Meeting the Greys and dancing with Geoff. Going out for coffee, and then a walk. The rocking horse that they'd seen in the window. Kissing Draco, seeing Malcolm, being attacked by the men in dark cloaks. Clinging to Fawkes while the phoenix whisked her away. Watching Malcolm get knocked out by the pavement, and then seeing Draco lying there, Stunned as well. The long, cold trip to St. Louis. Crashing into Meg's window. Seeing the cut on Liz's leg. Hearing her friend's sympathies and comfort.

Knowing that she might never see Draco again.

So it was entirely understandable when she leaned forward and started crying, soft sobs at first. Then it grew in desperation until she was hiccuping madly and not even bothering to stop the waterfall that her eyes made down her cheeks. Her throat was raw from the trip from New Orleans, but this did not stop her from crying unstoppable tears.

"Ginny?" the timid voice could belong to nobody other than Liz. Ginny wiped hurried at her eyes and lifted her face, knowing that she looked a mess. There she was, dressed in Meg's clothes, sleeping in Meg's bed, and bawling her eyes out. Furious with herself, she tried to palm most of the tears away. "Oh, you _are_ awake. I was wondering. We brought you some dinner."

Ginny tried to smile, but her cheeks did not seem to want to cooperate. "Thanks," she croaked. "How'd you know I'd be awake?"

Liz moved from the shadow of the doorway, bearing a white plastic sack. "Hunch," she answered simply. "I hope you like tacos, because there was a sale going on at the Taco Bell down the street, so Meg and I went and picked you up some."

Now it was not nearly so hard to smile. Her friends were so thoughtful. "Taco Bell?" she asked.

Liz shook her head sadly, appalled at Ginny's lack of knowledge in the Muggle area. "It's a fast food restaurant. I like it, but it's definitely not Meg's favourite, that's for sure. It's Mexican food, mostly tacos and burritos and quesadillas. Good stuff."

Although Ginny did not know what exactly 'fast food' was, she nodded and accepted Liz's explanation. "Thanks," she said, seeing several tacos in the sack. "Have you eaten yet?"

"Nope—that's why we got nine. And I got Pepsi…I hope you don't mind Pepsi." Meg joined the pair in her room, bringing with her a cardboard tray of drink cups with straws. The cups were purple and had a logo of a pink and dark purple bell on them, with the words "Taco Bell—Open Late!" reading beneath the logo in darker purple lettering. Setting the tray down on the desk, she gathered her bedcovers into a messy pile and shoved those onto the end of her bed.

"I've never had Pepsi," Ginny admitted as Liz dug around the bag and passed out napkins. "Is it good?"

"I'm personally more fond of Dr. Pepper myself, but I'll drink Pepsi occasionally," Meg offered honestly. Seeing Ginny's confusion, she felt the need to add, "It's a soda. Do you guys have that back east or not?"

"I imagine we do, but the wizards there don't really venture into the Muggle world very often." Thinking of that reminded her of the Malfoy family and their uptight ways, and the tears threatened to spill all over again. Harshly, Ginny told herself to stop it, and that she was being childish, but that could hardly be helped. Instead, she took a sip from the straw of the drink.

And nearly spit it out.

"What?" Meg asked in alarm as Ginny clawed for a napkin to spit the drink into. The witch was lucky enough to swallow most of it, but in her surprise, some of the bubbling liquid had dribbled out of her mouth. She wiped at her mouth, embarrassed. "Is it that bad? The flavour might have been out in the dispenser. It's known to do that…" She took a sip of Ginny's drink to see, and shook her head. "No, it's fine. What? Don't like soda, then?"

"It feels weird!" Ginny said, wrinkling her nose. "Pumpkin juice and butterbeer never did that! It feels like a fizz pop!"

Liz and Meg looked at each other in confusion before realisation dawned on Liz's face. "It's _carbonated_," she told Meg, grinning. "I'm guessing that witches and wizards in England don't have carbonated drinks!"

It took several drinks to become accustomed to the strange liquid, but eventually Ginny did, and she even found that she liked it. It made her throat feel a bit dry for awhile, but she got over that feeling as well. It was a very cheap dinner, indeed, for the tacos were slightly soggy in their paper wrappers, and very greasy. Still, she enjoyed the novelty of the food. "We only get takeout once in awhile," Meg told her. "We're still really poor, since we're still in school. Once we're out, it's big bucks, but for now we have to settle for cheap tacos. Tuition for St. Lawrence's is kind of pricey because it's a private school. Most of the witches and wizards in the area 'key over to Kansas, to the Lyon Institute over there."

Liz nodded, agreeing. She chewed with some difficulty and forced a mass of meat, tortilla, and cheese down her throat. "My mom's a lawyer, and my dad's a criminal justice associate over at the Wizarding Bureau of Investigation, or the WBI, so they've got enough money to send me here. Meg's parents are both doctors—figure that one out."

"Oh." Ginny chewed so that the lettuce, cheese, and meat all joined together between her teeth. She knew what they were doing: they had come into Meg's room in order to distract her from thoughts of the doom that surely awaited Draco. Ginny decided to play along with their game for now. "My dad works for the Ministry, our main government back at home. My mum doesn't work. She stays home and cleans, mostly. And nags us kids during the hols." She made a face; Ginny loved her mother, but Molly Weasley was almost as much of a handful as her children. "If there weren't seven of us, we'd probably have a lot more money. And Dad loves his job too much to get a promotion."

"Well, either way, we're all here." Liz tilted her head to the side and lifted her drink. "And scholarships are wonderful things."

"That they are," Meg agreed. "Just like opportunities." Plastic clicked in a muted sort of way as the three touched their drinks together.

*

_Draco had never been more terrified in his life._

He crouched in the dungeon of Malfoy Manor, for he could hardly be anywhere else, it seemed. He was in those blasted jeans again, with the holes in the knees, and the stains of blood down the length of them. Only now the blood was dry, so the jeans were stiff and hard to move in. That didn't inspire him to move any more than the circle of men around him did. Trying not to shake, he kept his hands flat on the floor and stared hard at his bared knees, the only parts of his body that he could see. They were bloody, too, but not hurting. His shoulders felt cold with sweat, but that might have been because his shirt was mysteriously gone.

"He's done. We've released enough for today."

That voice. He'd recognise it anywhere. His father was once again the head honcho of this little ring of men. If there had been any doubt before he'd been Stunned the night before, there was none now. Nobody else could sound so cruel—and that much like him_._

Draco shuddered at the thought of becoming like his father, and finally forced his neck to lift his head. The first thing he saw was that he wasn't in the dungeon of Malfoy Manor. No, the room was dark—too much like the dungeons for his tastes—but he appeared to be in some sort of warehouse, with shelves of boxes and lifting equipment, and everything. Dimmed floodlamps cast threatening shadows in every direction—even that change of lighting made him blink. He didn't know where he was, but that was hardly important right now. What was important was that his father was here_, and close enough to torment him._

Surely enough, there was his father, a pale head suspended on a black shrouded body. When Lucius noticed his son's gaze, he smiled almost fondly. "You were spectacular today, son," he praised. Perhaps the first praise that Draco had ever heard from his father. The words rang over and over again in Draco's head as he stared at the man that had sired him, somewhere between shock and anger.

"It's marvellous, the way you're improving. Last year we inspired nothing but a little fire, but this year…yes, Wormtail was right. You're quite ready."

Ready for what?_ Draco wasn't sure he wanted to know. When his father reached out towards him, he scampered back like a cornered animal. "Get away from me," he snarled gutturally. "I don't want you _near _me, you—" If Ginny had heard the words coming out of his mouth, he was quite sure that she would never feel clean again. He spit at his father, and was surprised to see that his father didn't flinch._

And that his spit was red.

With blood.

Despite the fact that globule of red was now dripping down Lucius's pristine front, the Malfoy patriarch did something that surprised Draco more than anything else: he threw his head back and he laughed. Hard. Like Draco had told a very funny joke. Then the other men in the room joined in, the yodels of laughter rising in volume until they set the small hairs on the back of Draco's neck on end.

He did not like that sound. He did not like that sound at all.

*

It was nearly three a. m. when Hermione Granger sat up from a perfectly deep sleep and blinked around at the warehouse all about her. Although she had been in the middle of a REM cycle only instants before, her manner gained a very businesslike air. With only a blink to transition her from a sleepy girl to a determined young woman, she climbed out of the sleeping bag and rummaged around in the small duffel bag she had placed on the side of her bed to hold her clothing. Dressing took very little time, but the noise alerted Remus Lupin that his apprentice was awake.

"Hermione?" the middle-aged werewolf inquired, lifting his head from the threadbare bolster.

Hermione, in the process of pulling her bushy mass of hair into something resembling a ponytail, looked over at him, her eyes flat. The pupils did not dilate; very little recognition was actually present. "I'm to go to America," she said, and disappeared.

Remus swore loud enough to wake the entire warehouse.

*

"Check." Voldemort's eyes glimmered triumphantly.

Malcolm's head felt heavier than it had even during the most infamous Quidditch game of his career. He squinted at the chessboard, somewhat confused. "No, it's not," he said slowly. He did not realise that he had just corrected the most evil wizard of his time. "You're bluffing to get me to move into check." _Stop messing with my head!_

"Good eye, Mr. Baddock."

"Yeah, I've got two of them." Malcolm moved his king to complete safety. "Your move."

* 

A thump at the window alerted them of another presence. Fearful that her window might explode again, Meg stood and approached it cautiously, peering outside into the darkening evening. Ginny swallowed the mouthful she had been chewing on. "It's Fawkes," she said in surprise after a minute. "I was wondering where he'd gone—and he's got letters. Three of them, it looks like." Puzzled, she unlatched the window and let the tired phoenix inside. "Maybe he's got news about Draco."

Fawkes hopped inside on one claw, extending a set of talons to her. Clutched there were three letters, each addressed with a different name. Meg took these and petted the tired bird's head while she looked at the postscript. "Well, there's one for Tiamat, one for Esther, and one for…" She squinted at the microscopic handwriting. "I _think _that says Athena."

"That'd be you," Ginny said, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. Fawkes's cheep confirmed her guess. "It's logical…after all, you'd be the first person to jump into a fight. And it appears Dumbledore's a step ahead of all of us, once again. I bet he was plotting this." Unaware that she was starting to sound like Hermione, she shook her head and plucked the letters that read "Tiamat" and "Esther" from Meg. "Liz, I don't know why, but you're probably Esther." She passed that letter to Liz.

"A biblical figure," Liz muttered. She turned the letter over in her hands and squinted at the return address. The purple "H" that represented Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was clearly emblazoned across the top left corner. Liz's voice was distracted as she continued, "Esther was known for her cleverness and boldness."

Meg looked up with interest. She had already broken the seal on the letter addressed to Athena. "Really? What'd she do?"

"She went to her husband, the king, knowing that he would kill her if she angered him, and told him that he was wrong, basically," Liz summed up. Seeming to realise that the feat she had mentioned had included more bluntness than cleverness, she blushed and added, "But she was really clever about it."

Ginny had by now broken the seal to her own letter. As she had expected, the parchment was entirely blank. She took her signet ring off and pressed it against the page. Immediately, looping words danced across the page, but not for very long. The message was actually quite terse for the verbose schoolmaster.

"_Tiamat, I understand that you must be upset over the disappearance of your companion, Jormungand, but do not fear. Salazar and I have anticipated that this would happen and have made preparations for the ordeal. He is perfectly safe, even from the man that you fear is most harmful to him. Just relax and enjoy the rest of your stay at St. Lawrence's._

-Bumblebee."

Neither Meg nor Liz noticed that Ginny's parchment sizzled away to dust. It looked as though they had received longer letters than the short note in Ginny's hands. They were goggling at the pages with wide eyes, and Ginny remembered the feeling of receiving her first Order letter. It had dazed her at first, but the Gryffindor side had taken over and allowed her to jump into the fray like any other red-blooded Weasley. Meg looked up first even though her letter wasn't finished. "How did this…this Bumblebee know about us, Ginny?" she asked softly, looking worriedly in Liz's direction. "He seems to know our life histories and everything." She sounded vaguely annoyed; Meg did not like being sneaked upon, and spying on her was included in that category.

"He doesn't miss a trick," Ginny remarked fondly. The note, while short, was enough to allay most of her doubts that Draco was truly all right for the moment. Although she did not always know what was going on, she had long before learned that when Dumbledore had things in control, he definitely had things in absolute order. Draco was probably cosier than she realised. Still, doubt tickled at the back of her mind, just waiting for an opportunity. She swallowed. "I don't know how he would know about you, though."

"I sent him a letter," Liz said without looking up from her own. "This morning, while you were sleeping. I gave it to Fawkes to deliver." She finally looked up, her brow furrowed. "So, we've been invited to join the Order of the Phoenix? _Why_?"

"It's a funny thing, the Order," Ginny said vaguely, not really intending to answer her yet. Answering a question with vague information had always been Bill's trick. "The Order was formed a long time ago, back in the Dark Ages when a dark wizard was terrorising the whole of Europe. When he was killed, and another took his place, someone remarked that evil was rather like a phoenix. That seemed to stick when they decided to form an order to observe the evil and try to keep it at a minimum. So they called it the Order of the Phoenix."

Meg blinked. "So you're saying that the Order is actually named after its greatest enemy? Or so to speak?"

"Well, sort of, but not really." Ginny sighed, wondering how she was going to explain this. At least talking kept her from thinking too much about Draco and his awful situation. "I've only been to one meeting. They usually don't meet altogether—everybody owls everybody else—but there's been some pretty severe situations with Voldemort lately, and Dumble—Bumblebee called a meeting for all the students who are members, to warn them of upcoming events." A simple shrug diverted any worries in the Americans. "Turns out we didn't need to be worried at the time, but that's not really important now. Fawkes chooses people for the Order of the Phoenix, and he attends all the meetings, too, because he's a phoenix. I remember asking Bumblebee why, and he told me it was because the Order was determined to become like a phoenix, too."

"And spring back up every time a new dark wizard, or witch, happens to come into power?" Liz finished, looking from the unfinished letter (she obviously hadn't finished, after all, for there was still a parchment. Order letters _always _disappeared once the last word had been read) to Ginny. "That's a pretty nifty little group, then."

"You have no idea," Ginny told her, remembering the meeting, which had been adjourned when Melinda Warren had set fire to Bainbridge Kalb's hair—and both had just laughed. Melinda had even shouted, "CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" like Professor Moody always had. "Fawkes must have tipped Dumbledore off to the pair of you. He must like you, if you've received an invitation."

Meg had finished reading her letter, for she let out a shriek and ducked. Her desk chair, already ancient, did not react well to the weight shifting suddenly. Ginny winced; the noise was like a small explosion when Meg hit the floor. "And once again I'm glad that we soundproofed your room," Liz commented drolly as Meg righted herself and the chair.

"It disappeared!" Meg snapped indignantly. "And something came flying at my head!"

Ginny reached out and seemed to snatch something from mid-air. "Bumblebee was having his little joke," she told Meg, and held out a ring. "It's charmed to look as though it's shooting for your head, but instead it hovers in front of your forehead." She shook her head, looking more like her father than she cared to know. "I imagine he had help from my twin brothers in designing that little part of his induction."

Still, Meg looked a trifle shaky as she took the ring. "I _hate _surprises," she muttered to herself while she examined the piece of jewellery. "First a bird through my window, and then his owner sends a ring at my head…Why, it's enough to make people…grr…"

"Grr?" Ginny echoed. "Meg, did you just growl?"

Liz gasped as she finished reading her letter, but she did not topple to the floor like Meg. Instead, she warily lifted a hand to the area just in front of her forehead, and collected her own signet ring. "That's the symbol for the investigation department of the WBI," she said after a minute's observation. She did not look as though she quite believed that she was holding the ring. "And a hand underneath it. How did he…I mean, how did this Bumblebee character _know_?"

Although Ginny was about to answer that, a snort from Meg stopped her. "Come _on_, Liz. You've applied to take every practice test for that bleeding exam you're taking at the end of the year, and anyone can tell by your school courses and just a pinch of imagination. It's not that hard—and I'm not even going to be the detective here."

Once again, Ginny was glad that she wasn't the only witch in the world who still flushed. "True," Liz conceded without trying to lose any of her posture. "It's just surprising, that's all. What's your ring got on it?" The two compared rings, for Meg's ring held a triangle with a handprint in the middle of it. "I don't think that's a triangle, I think that's a Delta," Liz mused. "It's a scientific symbol for energy, I believe."

"You've definitely got that," Ginny said, laughing. At least, she was laughing outwardly, and appearing as though she were enjoying cheap, greasy tacos with two of the best friends a girl could have. Inside, however, she was in agony. Although Dumbledore had told her that he had taken steps to protect Draco, Ginny knew that there was something more going on. It was a feeling that she had known since she had laid eyes on Draco Malfoy—granted, he'd been in silk boxers, and she'd been on the verge of dying—but not one she had recognised until just now. 

Dread.

It had been what had forced her to go to Professor Snape after Draco's breakdown. And now it was back, and in full force.

Something was coming.

And Ginny had the feeling that she was involved—and that it everything to do with why Draco Malfoy had changed.

*

"Checkmate."

A/N the last: Oh, yes, I'll admit it openly. I'm cruel. I'm so cruel that some giant kid should pushpin me into a card and write my species above it. Chapter Nine was fun, fun. I'm predicting three to four more chapters, and I promise that I will shed light onto the confusing situation soon. That's about forty-five to seventy pages left to go, folks. And you've yet to meet the bad guy…

Things that are important to know: Colin, Hermione, Draco, Ginny, and Malcolm are all connected. Malcolm is not quite the jerk we all believe him to be. I have not forgotten about Nick Von Blüten or Fate. They'll probably make an appearance in the next chapter. Liz and Meg's joining the OotP isn't so important in this story, but it might be in the next story. Or the third installment, should Book Five be permitting enough for me to write _Stronger than Bone _and _Faster than Love_. 


	10. Perfect Game

A/N: This chapter is brought to you by the letter "D." Draco, Death Eaters, Dark Lords, Dementors, death, despair, destruction, and dentistry have all been combined to bring you the tenth instalment of the epic fic, _Deeper Than Blood_. Grab your pixie sticks and prepare to enjoy the wild twists and turns Draco Malfoy and Malcolm Baddock face as they come to terms with what they've been raised to do.

Disclaimer: All the characters that you recognise really don't belong to me. I'm just here to play house and destroy life as they know it. But, I promise that I'll return them all in one piece. And I'm not making any money, really. In fact, I'm losing it. All this time I spend writing, I could be working a second job…oh, wait, I hate the first place. Never mind.

__

I am still walking evading the shadows

I am still running a narrow line

I'll go wherever you would have me go

Ever searching for a sign

Blue Horizon by _38th Parallel_

****

Perfect Game

Chapter Ten

Malcolm felt all of the air leaving him in one hard swoop. Across the table, Voldemort was looking at him with glittering eyes, maliciousness ingrained into every serpentine facial feature. A pressure had built at the back of Malcolm's throat long before, but in the wake of such a glare, it had turned slimy and nauseating. Every pore on his body had opened to let the cold air flow in, so that goose pimples rose everywhere. His hair stood on end. His boots, resting on the ground, were shaking the slightest bit.

Between him and the most powerful Dark Lord of all time lay a ruined chessboard. The remnants of battling black and white formed a grey filament of dust over the cracked squares, attesting to the battle that had taken place for hours between Keeper and Dark Lord. Two kings, one queen, a few scattered pawns, and three bishops were all that remained of the ferocious entanglement.

But one king stood, checkmated against the rest.

Sucking in a deep breath, Malcolm stared at the king in disbelief. The word to end the game still hung in the air over the chess game, like the rest of the battle dust. It echoed through every segment of his dazed and befuddled brain. "Checkmate."

Slowly, the game started to reconstruct itself all on its own. With no intervention, smashed pawns sprang back to life, halved rooks connected to the other halves, one queen picked herself out of the dust, knights crawled back to their equine friends. Malcolm snorted to himself as Hermione Granger, one of the rooks, actually reached down to dust off a minuscule copy of what appeared to be _Hogwarts, A History_. Draco straightened his crown as he resumed his normal spot. All of the chess pieces lined up on their own spots, none looking worse for the wear.

"I can't believe this, boy." Voldemort's hiss was incensed. Rage vibrated from every syllable. "_Nobody _beats me at chess."

"I just did." Malcolm's tongue felt too thick to use, but somehow he formed the words. They sounded distant to his ears. He repeated himself, not quite believing yet. "I actually beat you. You were checkmated. That means…that means that I can see your pieces." He glanced down, intent to study the black pieces. To his disappointment, most wore the normal garb of Death Eaters, so he could see very few faces. There was no doubting that the king was Lord Voldemort. The queen, however, was dressed in robes of blood-coloured velvet. He caught a glance of long, blond hair…

"_Crucio_!"

Malcolm knew pain. There was very little chance that he could avoid doing so, playing Quidditch as hard as he did. He had plummeted from broomsticks, broken more bones than he cared to say, ripped fingernails off while catching the Quaffle, and had more concussions than all of the boys in his year put together. It was odd to see him without cuts, scrapes, or bruises, or even the occasional black eye. And all of that felt like heaven compared to the utter agony that wracked his entire form now.

There was no centralised agony, nothing coming from just one point. It spread all over, and it came from all over. There was no beginning to it, and there would be no end. It just came in one big, unending wave, murdering him a hundred times over. In his mind, Malcolm bashed into a thousand walls and threw thousands of things. He flung himself from a thousand cliffs. He begged for his mother. He screamed for and at his father. His throat tore itself apart from his howls.

Then it all stopped.

It was almost like waking from a nightmare, or coming through a terrifying fog. Afterimages of the pain twinged at every muscle, throbbing almost gently. Malcolm opened his eyes—when had he closed them?—to find that he was in a foetal position, still manacled to the table. The manacles had marred his wrists with dark crimson, and he felt blood well at the back of his damaged throat.

And across from him, looking as though he had just finished reading the Sunday morning paper, was Lord Voldemort. Malcolm shook in unbroken terror that Voldemort would inflict something so awful on him again. The shaking alone made his body ache all over again. 

The Dark Lord, however, had other plans. Malignant eyes never leaving Malcolm's glazed, fearful ones, he called, "Baddock!" Malcolm's father, a dark, looming shadow, appeared at his elbow so quickly that Malcolm blinked. Had his father been there the whole time? His chest hitched suspiciously. Had his father actually stood there while Voldemort had _Crucio_'d his own son?

Now anger joined the fear, enabling Malcolm to lift his head high and glare malevolently. If his father noticed, the elder Baddock gave no sign.

Voldemort's next words froze Malcolm's blood on its path to his heart. "Ah, good, Baddock. Your prompt arrival is adequate. Undo those bonds and take your _son_ to his cell and leave him there. Keep him alive only until Draco's time comes."

_Draco's time_? Malcolm wondered, watching with little interest as the man that called himself a father touched a wand that Malcolm would recognise in his sleep to the manacle on his son's left wrist. _What is Draco's time?_ The manacle melted away, joined shortly by its partner, and the chains tying Malcolm to the table. _Is Draco even here? Is Ginny? Where _is _here?_

Rough hands hauled him to his feet and shoved him in the general direction of a door that Malcolm had not seen before in the darkened room. His entire form quaked, but he did not care. Sweet, nurturing delirious surreality had swept in on the pain's wake, and he found himself gazing at the world with apathy unequalled. As long as something levied him away from Voldemort, he was content to be manhandled from the room. That was, at least, until he heard Voldemort's parting words.

"And once you have the girl, Mr. Baddock, kill him."

*

Draco caught the bottle with his fingertips, cold and wet against the pads of his hand. "What's this?" he asked without thinking, picking up the vintage.

He had been sitting in a room for about an hour now, he guessed, with only a dark shadow across the table to keep him company. It was a small room, darkened and dull. There had been no words exchanged so far. Three days had passed since he had been Stunned and led away at wandpoint from his date with Ginny Weasley. What had occurred of Ginny, he was not positive, but he was almost sure that the phoenix had flown her out of there. Baddock's situation was not so lucky, Draco knew. They had thrown both boys in the same cell, after Draco was released from his nightmarish sessions with his father. Baddock was very tight-lipped about where he had been, but Draco had gleaned enough information to know that something had gone very, very wrong for the young Keeper—especially after the young man had coughed blood all over Draco's sleeve. 

Of course, enquiring about either of those was downright foolish. Draco wasn't an average prisoner; he had learned early on that he wasn't to be killed. Now his only point was to find out why he was there in the first place. He wanted to ask about that, too, but knew that was pretty stupid. So instead, he asked about the bottle that had been passed to him by a nameless personage.

"Wine," was the grunted answer. "Your father felt that your progress was going well enough for you to receive some reward."

The rage that had washed through Draco on and off for three days straight did not surface now. In fact, his only reaction was an uplifted eyebrow. He picked up the bottle and read the brand and year. "Surely my father knows that I gave up alcohol altogether," he said mildly, pushing the bottle back to its source. "If you've intentions of giving me recompense, I would not say no to a stroll outside, or perhaps the smallest taste of freedom. I find chains and imprisonment rather morbid and positively dull."

He had to bite back a smirk against the shocked, stiff reaction of the wine deliverer. "Mr. Malfoy…"

"Come, come, I'm sure you're one of Father's henchmen. That puts us almost in the same family, doesn't it? Call me Draco. My family does." Draco had learned his etiquette and stone-faced ability to lie from the best of the brightest: his father. Although he tended not to react rationally to situations involving Potter and Ginny, he could play this calm-faced persona until he was ready to rip throats out. This way, nobody would be able to guess his reactions.

"Very well…Draco." The henchman obviously did not know what to take of the smirking, calm boy across the table. "I can't allow you to go outside."

Now Draco was getting bored with this. "A deck of cards, then?" he wheedled easily. "It wouldn't be too much, and Baddock's a growing boy. Too much more of this drab place and he may go insane. That won't look good for the Slytherin Quidditch team, won't it? I mean, you're a Slytherin, aren't you?"

"…Yes," the man holding the wine replied slowly, unsure as to what Draco was aiming for. "Yes, I was a Slytherin."

There was never a finer actor than Draco at that moment. He leaned forward with his palms flat on the table, pretending outrage when all he felt was manipulative amusement. "Then how dare you refuse to give us this gift! The future of Slytherin's Quidditch team rests on your shoulders, man! Are you going to let them go into poverty over a mere _deck of cards_?"

Obviously quaking with fear, the man hurried from the room to procure the deck of cards for Draco and Baddock. Once he was sure that the man had completely gone, Draco leaned back and allowed the annoyed expression to leave his face. His victory was short-lived, it turned out.

"You're manipulative as well as many-sided, Lord Malfoy," a serpentine voice said from the darkness, causing every fibre in Draco's being to freeze up quite unexpectedly. "I would hate to be your opponent in such a game of cards."

Although his throat closed up in betrayal, Draco still managed to murmur, "Lord Voldemort," with passable reverence. He quickly dropped his head; Draco had been in the presence of Voldemort before, being the son of one of the highest esteemed Death Eaters. He knew the entire charade from front to back, and could act accordingly. That did not, however, account for the fact that his knees were knocking together so loudly that he was positive the Dark Lord heard it. "I did not hear your lordship come in."

"That would not have been possible," came the answering reply. Underneath the sweeps of blond hair that had grown long enough to fall beseechingly into his eyes, Draco could see the shadow of what had once been a man, Tom Riddle. "I entered before you."

Now Draco's throat was battling with the Sahara Desert. He forced his knees together by crossing his legs at the ankles and tucking them underneath his chair. "Of course, milord," he answered with some difficulty. _That explains a lot_. Although he did not voice this last part, it was evident in the set of his shoulders. Realising that the wine was now between the Dark Lord and himself, he asked, "Would your lordship care for a glass? I do not partake myself, but don't let me stop you."

There was a graceful shifting that nearly made him start. "Wine loosens the tongue all too much for my tastes. What would any of us be if we were all reduced to idiots who cried at the merest word, Mr. Malfoy?"

"A bunch of tail-wagging sods following some mindless operation or other, I'd imagine," Draco said before he could stop himself.

He blanched at his courage, but the damage had been done. "Is that how you perceive my esteemed order to be, Mr. Malfoy?" The tone was surprisingly empty of malice; if he were to examine it with a detached air, which was certainly not possible with the blood racing through his system and thudding through his heart as it was, Draco would have detected only curiosity. "Some days, I feel that you are more than right."

Surely this couldn't be happening. "I am?" Draco asked slowly, lifting his head the slightest bit to get a better view through his hair. "Right, I mean? About the tail-wagging sods?"

The laugh that was presented him now was cold and humourless. "How _else _would you get such a strong legion of men behind you, Mr. Malfoy? Rewards. Promises. Dealings. Men cannot lead men alone by faith. We are not perfect—we must bluff. Surely you've realised this long before. I've heard your merits concerning the card table."

Until his sixteenth birthday, Draco had been one of the most reputed poker players under twenty, after all. His father had entered him into the games to score heaps of money—money that Draco never saw again. With a natural poker face, Draco had indeed walked away with the heaviest pockets after the game more than a few times. "Are you calling your men a bunch of faithless swots, milord?" he finally asked, pushing all of this information aside. "I don't feel that they would appreciate that very much."

Voldemort flicked his fingers, which Draco now could clearly see. An amused smile that was still sinister collected on his snakelike features. "The truth, as they say, hurts, Mr. Malfoy."

That it does, Draco wanted to agree, but wisely kept his tongue. Being a smart aleck would earn him nothing. Right now, he needed to wait and assess his situation. Faithless swots or not, those men and this half-human lord in front of him were more danger than he wished to think about. One tiny whiff of the indecision on his part would have them all over him like Chasers on a Quaffle.

"However, not all men in my legion are, as you put it, 'faithless swots.' I have several devout followers, of whom I like to make examples. You remember Bartemius Crouch, Jr., correct?"

A scowl coming over his features, Draco affirmed that he had, indeed. Being in Lucius Malfoy's circle meant knowing most of what happened at Hogwarts. As a consequence, Draco had learned that it had not been Alastor Moody, but Barty Crouch that had humiliated him by turning him into a bouncing rodent of some sort. From the way Potter and his friends talked, it was a ferret, but Draco had never been sure.

"Until I had to dispose of him, he was quite the devoted follower. I would pay to have ten more like him. It was almost a tragedy, that I had to ask that Dementor to finish the job his father started." If Voldemort had been any sixth or seventh year in the Slytherin House, he would have been twirling the stem of some vicious-looking wineglass, and watching the wine luxuriously. However, he was only tapping the fingers of one hand against the table and staring at Draco with smoky red eyes. "You'll discover, Mr. Malfoy, that the blind cannot lead the blind. You know perhaps as well as I do that Albus Dumbledore and 'Order of the Phoenix' are just a bunch of meddling old fools who have become bored with saving the day by the legal, normal ways. They are still every bit as tiresome and conceited as they were when they tried to take the world from the offices of the Ministry." 

Draco blinked at the change of topic, but gave no other reaction than that. His poker face was grafted firmly in its spot, not even budging for the darkest lord of all time. "The Gryffindors _are_ always butting into my business," he agreed honestly, venom in his voice. "They seem to deem me unworthy to handle my own affairs."

Unbidden, a flash of Potter's stubborn face from the Prefect's bathroom only a month before came into his mind. He did not blink, even when that was followed by another flash, this time of Granger's face as she pulled him into an alcove to discuss Ginny's honour. And bringing up the rear as always was a view of an angry Weasley, pinning him against the wall. Other than that, he could conjure up no more images. "I'm surprised that none of them have died, impaled on their own swords before now. They've always seemed a foolhardy breed to me." _Without the Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, and Slytherins, it wouldn't be surprising if the castle had burned down five times over_, he thought derisively to himself.

"I've learned not to underestimate Gryffindors. A reckless fool with a wand, fool though he is, is still a threat." Voldemort steepled his spindly fingers. "That is why I must be assured that my men have complete faith in me."

_He's going to do it,_ Draco thought with one wild spurt of panic, although his face showed no more than a piqued curiosity. Underneath, he was sweating wildly, bashing things around in his mind. He avoided the dark spot within that had been growing in the past three days. The dark spot actually liked the idea of following such a sinister villain. However, the rest of him was protesting and screaming, _He's actually going to do it. He's going to make me take the Dark Mark, here and now!_

The knowledge that he would one day have to take the Dark Mark on his left arm, and deal with a lifetime of wearing long sleeves and arm cramps, had always been present. That was why Draco had invented his own defence mechanisms to combat the knowledge. However, the most effectual one, that taking the Mark wouldn't happen for a long time, wasn't proving effective at all in the face of such panic.

"Understandable, milord," Draco said slowly, his voice betraying none of his panic. "I would ask for little else, were I in your position."

The door opened and both the Dark Lord and the son of one of his most prestigious followers looked up as the nameless Death Eater Draco had sent for cards re-entered. When the Death Eater saw Voldemort sitting across the table from Draco, he fell immediately to his knees and touched his forehead to the floor. "Milord," he said in a whimpering tone. Draco realised with quite a guilty jolt that he had ordered the poor Death Eater to go against orders, which would certain mean punishment on the Death Eater's part. "I—I only went to retrieve a deck of cards for this boy. A mere deck of cards, milord, that's all, I swear!"

"Get up, you snivelling rodent. Today is your lucky day." Voldemort glanced fleetingly at Draco, long enough to make the boy's stomach churn unpleasantly. "Mr. Malfoy has agreed to play you in cards. Should you win, you can keep your life."

Draco hadn't agreed to any such thing, but nobody could claim that the Dark Lord was fair. He looked across at the whimpering Death Eater, wondering exactly why such a coward had joined Voldemort's ranks. He soon found out. "Please, milord, I'm just trying to support my family…"

"You will remember that the next time you disobey an order, then," Voldemort said idly, looking almost bored. With a small amount of thrill and a larger amount of dread, Draco realised that this was some sort of test of _him_, not of the servant. The servant was at Draco's mercy, and Voldemort wanted to see how Draco would play this game. Draco was skilled enough at cards to win or to lose easily. If he lost, he would be going easy on the poor man, but if he won, he would condemn the man. He watched without any sort of compassion as the man sat down across from him and brought the deck of cards into the dim light. "The cards. Mr. Malfoy will deal."

The Death Eater had fetched Exploding Snap cards, Draco saw immediately. Inwardly, he almost trilled with pleasure. Although Draco excelled at poker, his true love was the danger and excitement a simple game of Exploding Snap held. Of course, it wouldn't be _quite _as fun with only two people, especially not with somebody's life at stake.

"We'll keep it simple," he said severely, looking at his opponent without any flash of pity in his eyes, "because simple is all I think you can handle."

The Death Eater tensed. "Very well, milord," he muttered, looking fearful and annoyed at the same time. "If that is the way you wish to do things. I can handle complex, but if you would like to keep it simple, then by all means, do."

Draco's scowl deepened as he subconsciously tried to make himself appear more frightening. He had a plan, but it would never work if the Death Eater showed nothing but disdain towards him. "Complex, then," he snapped, wishing that he had not inadvertently backed himself into that corner. It would definitely throw a broken wand into his plans. "And mind you, keep comments like that to yourself. I have no wish for you to soil the air with their pitiful foolishness."

That shut his opponent up. _Score one for Draco Malfoy_, Draco thought to himself as his nimble fingers shuffled the deck. "Tell me your name, fool. I can hardly well play against a nameless man in Exploding Snap, can I? Why, that's almost against the rules." Diamond-hard coldness emanated from his voice, earning him a nod from the Dark Lord and an astonished stare from his opponent.

"Stodgeton," his opponent finally answered. "Lloyd Stodgeton."

Draco stared at him balefully, glad that he was finally bowing down to the plan. "Well?" he asked impatiently, after a moment.

Although Stodgeton's face was blocked by the Death Eater mask, he radiated confusion. "Well what, sir?" he asked slowly, looking from Draco to Voldemort.

"Your mask!" Draco snapped impetuously. Acting just like Lucius came extremely easily, a thought that made him feel both relieved and scared. "I can hardly be expected to play against you in a decent game of Snap while it's on, can I? Come, we're all of one confidence here. Remove that obstruction and let's start this game! You're wasting my time!"

Lloyd Stodgeton was a wisp of a man, probably in his early thirties or late twenties. He had obviously seen better years, for his face was rather gaunt and the skin hung unappealingly from his neck. He was balding as well, the shiny skin atop his head alive with hundreds of freckles. They ran up the length of his hands and neck and face, the only parts of Lloyd Stodgeton that Draco could see. Dishwater blond hair gleamed dully in the dim light. "Very well, milord." He tore his blue gaze away from Draco's own. He accepted the first hand without so much as glancing up.

But Draco had played his hand at Exploding Snap several times, and knew how to cajole an unwilling player. If he wanted to spare pitiful Lloyd Stodgeton's life, he had to do it carefully. He had to find something that made Stodgeton worth preserving in Voldemort's care. Although the fact that Stodgeton was a father would play with most peoples' heartstrings, Voldemort had instructed Lucius Malfoy to have his own son whipped. Baddock had thrown his own son into the cell at Voldemort's orders. That was hardly something that Draco could use to his advantage. It took him awhile, but he discovered it: Stodgeton's redeeming quality was that he had once been a prised Curse-Breaker for Gringotts.

So it was a very relieved Draco that lost to Stodgeton by a mere defaulted card, when his entire hand of cards ignited and tried to singe his eyebrows off. Stodgeton, still left with a hand that was only smouldering, stared at the younger man, obviously stunned.

Voldemort leaned close to the victor, eyes malignant. Even from where he was sucking on the tips of his fingers to relieve some of the pain, Draco could see the other man shaking wildly. "Mr. Malfoy has seen the benefits in sparing your life, Stodgeton. Next time, you may not be so lucky. Let this be a lesson to you: never disobey a direct order from me, or it will be the last thing you do. I will make certain of it." Stodgeton babbled that he would never dream of such a thing. "Good. Now get out of here—the sight of you tires me!"

Stodgeton needed no further urging.

Even as the door swung shut behind the almost-ruined man, Draco turned his gaze towards the table directly in front of Voldemort. "Did I pass your test, milord?"

"Suitably." Voldemort seemed to be pondering something, so Draco took the opportunity to get another glimpse of the notorious criminal through the curtain of his hair. Voldemort had returned to tapping his fingers against the table again, but he was not regarding Draco now. It was the eyes that made him terrifying, Draco asserted after a minute. Once those inhuman eyes turned on you, you knew that there was no hope, and that there would never be hope again. They were like Dementors—frightening, snakelike Dementors. "Your birthday is only four days away, Mr. Malfoy."

"Yes, milord. Thursday."

"Great things will be happening…On that day, do you intend to join my cause?" Voldemort was still not looking at him, which was probably a good thing. Draco's left hand had started to shake despite his best efforts to keep a calm head.

Feeling sick, he replied, "Fire and brimstone couldn't hold me away, milord."

The dark spot, the half of him that kept silent within, liked this idea and thrummed with happy intensity. Following Voldemort meant power, and the dark spot like power. It craved power. For a minute, Draco was taken over by that spot, and his whole being hungered for that power. But the human in him felt that retching all over the room was a very good idea. Steeling his resolve, Draco managed to keep the sandwich they had fed him for lunch inside his body.

"I _will_ take you up on your promise, Malfoy. Fire and brimstone might very well try. I need leaders like you—leaders who crave for the very same thing I do: eternal power. With a dozen like you, we could rule the world without flicking so much as a finger."

World-domination hadn't been in Draco's plans since fifth-year, but he was hardly going to say so. Instead, he just forced himself to nod grimly, having sealed his own fate. Nothing would save him now, even buoyed by Snape, Ginny, and Dumbledore though he was. _Would you be a Death Eater if you had a choice_? had been Ginny's question to him. She'd seen _something_ redeeming in him, because she'd replied, _Then that's all I need to know_. Even though that had made him feel better than anything he could imagine, it did nothing to help him right now. He felt as black as sin, only blacker, and stickier. A simple "yes" would have sufficed to Voldemort's proposal, but he had willingly thrown in that bit about fire and brimstone.

The most frightening part was that half of him _liked _that bit.

*

The logical thing to do when one landed unexpectedly in the middle of New Orleans, Louisiana was to panic and immediately try to figure out _why_.

Colin had done neither. His first thought had actually been, _What? Hey, wait, this isn't the train station. This is…hey, that sign says New Orleans. I'm in New Orleans?!…Cool!_

And then he set off to find what he was looking for. Six days and thirteen rolls of film later, he still didn't know exactly why he was in New Orleans searching for something, but it did not particularly bother him. The fact that he didn't even know _what_ he was looking for was slightly trying, but not as trying as the fact that he was running out of money with which to buy film. Or food, for that matter.

It bothered him that these were the only things that should happen to bother him at all, come to think of it.

The problem that he was an ocean away from the safehouse he shared with his brother, father, and grandfather wasn't the least bothersome to him at all. Colin had merely written a note on the back of a flyer and had mailed that with regular mail. Of course, he'd had to nick the envelope from a package of them in a nearby monstrosity called a "Dollar Store," but he doubted that the person unlucky enough to buy that particular package would know that instead of the normal fifty envelopes, there were only forty-nine. He had addressed the letter to Jerry Connell, the name his father had taken while in hiding, with a postscript (and an entirely fake address) by Colin Connell. The mystery of it had actually been pretty exciting.

With the minor problem of his family out of the way, Colin had plenty of time to wander the different quadrants of New Orleans and to contemplate his existence. He slept on a stoop with a roof over it, the drowsy heat enough to knock him out even on a concrete bed. During the day, he migrated from one tourist trap to another, careful not to spend more than two dollars a day (scrimping had always come easily to him). Some days, he sat in cool cafes out of the way of the normal tourist crowds and read through the Soul Book, which seemed to be changing with time. It was growing darker and wilder, more pages appearing by the day that were filled in inconsistent anecdotes and crazy, sketched in drawings of half-things that didn't exist.

Today, something was going to happen. He could taste the change in the air, like the salt that always clung around the docks. Upon waking that morning, he had washed up in the sink of a nearby restaurant (promising himself that he would take a shower in the 'truck stop' later), and let his feet wander. The Soul Book was securely tucked in his back pocket. His feet took him by the docks, as he had expected, and then up to a quadrant of New Orleans that he had only been through once. All through the day, he wandered the streets, trying not to let the muggy heat overtake him. When the day started to cool around six o'clock at night, he found himself standing on the same corner that he had landed on six days before.

"What's the matter, son?" asked an old man that Colin had seen on the streets before. He was sitting on a park bench only a few feet away, smoking what looked to be self-rolled cigarette. Grizzled and quite burnt by a long life on the streets Norman "Ned" Parker had become an acquaintance of Colin's in the young man's week of wandering the streets. "You look like you're waiting for sum'thin."

Distracted, Colin just gave a half-shrug. "Maybe."

He was not sure _why _he splayed his feet, squared his shoulders, and hunkered down like a rugby player. He even raised his hands to catch something, like a very large ball. It all felt instinctual to him, like he had been raised for this moment alone. All of eternity could be offering him a thousand rolls of film, and the most antique of cameras, but he knew that he would not budge from that spot. For once, he felt right in place.

That lasted for about five seconds, when a shorter, very feminine body emerged from a rip in space and collapsed against him. Colin strained his calves and lower back, trying to keep the added weight from sending them both crashing unceremoniously to the pavement. He got lucky; the other person had very quick reactions. Soon they were standing on both feet, a reasonable distance apart. "Hermione!" Colin cried, regaining his voice first. "What—what are you doing in New Orleans?"

Hermione Granger flicked frizzy hair out of her eyes with one hand and re-shouldered her pack with the other. Her brown eyes were very placid, like a faithful dog's eyes, as she looked at Colin. "I guess I'm meant to be here, that's all. Travelling in the Realm of the Undead was no picnic, but now is not the time for that. Let's go."

"Go? Go where?" Colin was so trapped in the whirlwind of the moment that he was having a hard time discerning that the Head Girl, best friend to Harry Potter, was in New Orleans. And that she had been travelling in the Realm of the Undead. And that she wasn't questioning why she was there, either. Thoughts chased each other in a half-crazed frenzy around Colin's head as he stared at the shorter British witch.

Hermione rolled her eyes like it was obvious. "To find something to eat, of course! Something's going to happen very soon, and we're going to need to be well-fed for it, aren't we?"

"Sure," Colin replied, although he did not feel sure at all. Instead, he felt downright scared for the first time in a week as he followed the other Gryffindor off to a restaurant. Hermione was right; something was about to happen, and he wasn't sure he was going to like it very much. It roiled around like a sickening pit in his stomach, making him uncomfortable as he matched his step to Hermione's. Soon, he knew, his world would change.

Meanwhile, Ned Parker lifted a bottle to his lips and took another heavy drink. "Here's to life," he muttered to nobody, and tried to forget that a girl had just appeared out of thin air.

*

It was as though reality had taken Malcolm by the head and given his noggin a good twist, shoving him from the slate—most people would call such an allowance a "cot," but Malcolm felt that the furniture didn't deserve such a generous name—and onto the stone floor of the warehouse. "Ow!" he protested, rubbing at his elbow. Gingerly, he touched his neck with two fingers, making sure it had not snapped in the paranormal moment. There was no obvious damage, so he cleared his throat to see if anything had been injured there. Nothing.

Then he looked up.

The cell he and Draco had been sharing for the past six days was a simple affair, really. A box of criss-crossing metal bars, it sat in the middle of an abandoned warehouse. There was no leave for privacy; the two boys had lived in constant scrutiny for nearly a week. Two hideous slates were crowded into the space, against opposite walls. In between was an uneventful area of boring grey concrete, marked occasionally by the random Exploding Snap card that had been separated from the rest of the pile. For two days, he and Draco had purposely put together bad hands at Snap so that the cards would explode and melt the simple lock that was padlocked about the only door of the cage. Their plan was hard to pull off with so many guards, but they eventually were successful enough to discover one thing: only a set of keys that the Death Eaters had could free the two young men.

Because the twist in reality had thrown him into a position lying parallel to his bed, Malcolm had sat up to stare at the only exit. Had he not looked at just the right moment, he would have never have spotted it. As it was, he had to rub his eyes and blink several times before he was satisfied that he had not been hallucinating.

Right next to the padlock that he and Draco had been trying to melt for two days was what could be nothing but a rip in space and time.

There was a great gap in the air of a certain discoloured light, giving the illusion of pure nothingness. Curiosity breaking through the dulled senses that had taken over Malcolm's skull; he scrambled to his feet and leaped across the cell in one fluid motion. Six days of being trapped in a tiny cell had their effect, though. Malcolm stumbled and pitched forward, his hand sliding neatly into the tear. What followed was the surreal noise of something being ripped and then a startled yelp from the young man as he was _pulled _into the inter-dimensional rip. "What the—!"

He remembered appearing in America, and then in Louisiana. There had been no physical change: he had been standing in his father's manor one moment, and the next had been in America. Less than a twinkling of an eye. There was nothing to say that his body had instantaneously moved itself across thousands of miles without alerting him—except for the abrupt change in location. Malcolm had spent most of the last six days wondering why his body wouldn't do that to him _now_, to get him out of the cell.

And apparently, it just had.

The skin on the tops of his arms and back of his neck tingled warningly as he opened his eyes. White immediately assaulted his vision, making sight all but useless. Gritting his teeth, he blinked until he could focus for more than a few seconds without suffering a migraine. With time, he was able to keep his eyes open long enough to explore the room that he had been thrown into.

It could rival the Great Hall in size and win easily: white seemed to spread for miles, glowing in every direction so that Malcolm could only stare for so long. The floor beneath his socks, which looked grubby compared to the purity of the whiteness, was carved with strange runic symbols that Malcolm had never seen before. He bent to inspect them closely, but the sound of a throat clearing nearly threw him to the ground as he whirled.

"Mr. Baddock, I presume?" The voice was clean of any accent, the syllables crisp and slightly exaggerated with subtle nuances. The speaker had just appeared from thin air without even the _pop!_ that normally announced an Apparation. Malcolm turned warily, his defences up as a result of six days' imprisonment. He wondered if this was just another terrible ploy of his father's to break his resolve and turn him into the perfect death eater, but the man that approached him now spoke of nothing in particular. A white robe as blinding as the room swirled about his form as the man drew near. Blinking away afterimages from the robe, Malcolm saw flat, chiselled features on his dark head. They were drawn up into a delighted smile, to his utter surprise.

"Er—yes," he said upon realising that this man was talking to him. "Who are you?" His voice was guarded with steel, and his legs were posed to run.

"Relax, Mr. Baddock," the man said, finally reaching him. He stopped only three feet away and snapped his fingers. Immediately, padded chairs shot up from the floor just behind each of them. Although the man seated himself, Malcolm did not move. "Really, son, you can relax. I'm not any danger to you—why, I _am_ you."

Malcolm scoffed, but took a seat. "Right. I believe you, really I do."

"Well, I'm not _you_, exactly, but I _am_ your Fate." The man smiled idly, obviously used to such confrontations.

"I don't believe in Fate."

"I know."

They stared at each other for a long moment, Malcolm's stare disbelieving and guarded, the man's entertained and rather content. Finally, Malcolm gave in and broke eye contact. In truth, his head was still spinning from the trip through the grey nothingness, and the room made his eyes hurt. "Could you turn off the white a bit, then?" he demanded grouchily. "I'm getting a migraine."

"Ah, yes, not many find my home all that pleasant. It's why I have so few visitors." Fate, for that was Malcolm was going to call him until he could figure out an actual name, snapped his fingers once again, and the scene changed entirely. Malcolm was eerily spooked to find himself sitting in the parlour of his own house. Everything was the same, down to the scowls on the portrait of his father and himself, painted when Malcolm had been ten. His mother had been alive then. "Have no worry, Mr. Baddock, this is all only an illusion. I chose a place you might be familiar with."

"I'm familiar with it," Malcolm muttered. He was half-tempted to cross to the other side of the room and take a long pull at the whiskey bottle that he knew would be hidden behind the portrait of Uncle Vedwin. Instead, he folded his hands in his lap and glared. "That doesn't make it comfortable, though."

Fate raised an amused eyebrow. "Deal with it."

The questions were bubbling to the surface, each one more confusing, demanding, and dizzying than the one before. Malcolm could hardly voice all of them at once, so he chose to sit back and let this strange man explain. He wasn't going to make anything easy, he decided. After the attack in New Orleans, and the following imprisonment, he had vowed to make life difficult for anybody who ever disagreed with him about anything. He was tired of bowing down to orders. "Why have you brought me here? And don't evade the question—I want truth, and somebody's going to give it to me today!"

"My, my, insistent." A flourish of the fingers and Fate was holding a goblet of iced water. "Would you like some?"

His throat was burning with the need for liquid. "I'd like my questions answered," Malcolm said gruffly.

Fate's smile was indulgently smug, making Malcolm bristle in his seat even as the strange man passed over the water and flourished himself another. "My main jobs are to meddle, destroy, and clear the way for what I want to happen. In your life, I'm afraid I might have been too late to save you from yourself," and for a moment, he pulled considerable regret into his statement, "but I can inform you that in the great lottery of practical Fates, you've nearly taken the cake."

Malcolm stared.

"Tell me, son, have you ever heard of the six-point ritual?"

*

_A rabid fear._

Draco lay on his cot, his blue-grey eyes wide as he tried to discern reality from surreality with very little luck. Inside, raging emotions that had lain dormant for over a year had return with such force that he had nearly lost all of his dinner at their onset. The anger and the hatred were back, stronger than they had ever been. It felt as though he had two personalities warring for dominance inside his pale, rigid body, and the actual Draco could do nothing about it.

_A rising anger._

He didn't like this, not at all. Malcolm Baddock had disappeared without even so much as unlocking the cage, so there was only one guard watching him now. But still, Draco was too torn to move. Something was beating on his body from the inside, and he was doing everything but showing the bruises.

_Hatred, whole and complete._

How he hated all of them: Potter, with his perfect life and his heroic struggles, always the good guy, always the winner. Dumbledore, for believing that the sun rose and set with stupid Potter and his stupid ways. Snape, for not saving him from his father. His father, for throwing him to the dogs and making him believe that was all that was possible. Baddock, for getting away. Ginny, for not being enough to keep him from this raving insanity.

_There's nothing left now._

The voice spoke inside his head, whispered through his blood. He couldn't do anything now; fighting himself wasn't an option, and the personality that fulminated inside, bouncing painfully against his forehead and the back of his eyes. The resulting headache was spectacular in its depth and complexity.

_Somebody, stop the pain._

Evilness abated; Ginny's image wafted to the front of his mind. She was looking at him, studying him on the bridge that night so long ago in New Orleans. It was as though her cinnamon eyes were staring through him at something only she could see. Seeing something that he would never see in himself. Reassured that she was still out there and alive, Draco turned onto his side and fell into an uneasy sleep that was punctured by nightmares of what he might become if this kept up any longer.

*

A/N, the Second: I owe a lot of people an apology for the delay. Between getting settled in, passing my classes, dealing with emotional crises, and a highly formidable lists of "things to do before I go insane," I'm afraid I haven't had much time for the plight of Draco towards the means of self-actualisation.

Thanks to all those lovely people that poked me and prodded me until I updated this overbalanced soap opera of mystical proportions. If I'm right, and I like to think I am, we're looking at 2-4 more chapters, including the epilogue. The next chapter is going to be one of my favourites, the troops assembling for battle. Be sure to stick around! Thank you to all you lovely reviewers out there! That little blue box down there? Yeah, it really makes my day.


End file.
